


I will burn your world to ash (and let you watch it die)

by BardicRaven, Rioghna



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Despair, Episode: s03e18 Public Enemy, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hacking, Nothing left to lose, Poor Life Choices, Regret, Suicide, Suicide Notes, Triggers, hell hath no fury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-03-21 04:46:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3678084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BardicRaven/pseuds/BardicRaven, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rioghna/pseuds/Rioghna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grief can make a man do funny things.</p><p>At least that's the only reason Lance could think of, later, for why he issued the fatal order.</p><p>Shoot to kill.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <strong>Updates - Chapter 10 up - 10-09-15 ~5k words</strong></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Stage is Set

Grief can make a man do funny things.

It can make one man shatter a city in his dead wife's name.

It can make another question all he is, all he's done.

It can make another forget who he is, what he's sworn to do, to be.

At least that's the only reason Lance could think of, later, for why he issued the fatal order.

Shoot to kill.

Even a man such as Oliver Queen, cannot dodge a hail of bullets.  
Even a man such as Oliver Queen cannot cheat death forever.

But really, Lance should have remembered that when you take a man's heart, a man's hope, and you leave him with nothing to lose, it is then that you have created a monster in truth.

For when you have nothing to lose, you have nothing to gain by staying your hand.

And its close corollary, that if a man is that charismatic, however crazy you might think he may be, he can and will inspire loyalty.

Bone-deep loyalty. The kind of loyalty that makes cops cringe at domestic violence calls. The kind of loyalty that turns on those who attack it, no matter their own reservations.

And his team had had reservations. They'd all begun to wonder, in their own way, if Oliver Queen had finally cracked, finally broken under the strain of too many years, too many losses.

They'd begun to wonder. Until a fatal bullet changed their minds.

Set them free.

Free to burn their world to ash, for it was no longer theirs.

>>>\----------->

The banks went first, or rather, any account belonging to a police officer, or to the city.

Closely followed by any computer attached to the police department. Even taking them offline didn't help, tho' they never could figure out how that was done.

While 911-calls were unaffected, every other call in or out of the precinct simply vanished into the telephonic ether, never to be heard, or heard from, again. Cell service was blocked, too.

Other vital city services were unaffected, but every other part of the city, government and services alike, found itself simply... gone.

Paying cops in cash led to an upswing in crime. With all that money on the streets, even the low-class hoods came to make some easy money.

After the third time he'd had to visit an officer in the hospital as a result of a mugging, he gave in.

As much as he didn't want to deal with blackmaillers, this was getting to be too much.

Innocent people were getting hurt.

When Lance tried to contact Laurel, to beg her to call them off, the calls went straight to voicemail. When he went to her apartment, he received no answer, and when he tried his key, he found the locks changed. Surveillance proved that she had gone, and pinging her phone revealed that she had left it in her desk in the D.A.'s office.

When he went to the Foundry, he found it empty, with a message waiting for him. _A piece of paper, how very unlike her,_ he thought with sadness, already beginning to regret what he had done, and not only for the terrible consequences it had already brought, and that he feared were coming, but also for the memory of blond hair, going to brown just at the roots, and innocent eyes staring up at him despite her heels.

And as much as he wanted to pin that on Oliver too, he found he couldn't. He knew the face that bore the blame, and it looked back at him every morning from the mirror.

He forced himself to walk over, look at the message.

It was very short. But what it promised could be never-ending.

 _I will burn your world to ash. Hell hath no fury._ was all it said.

All it needed to say.

Lance closed his eyes in pain. He could see the storm coming. What he didn't know was what he could do about it.

The one thing that could stop her, would stop her, wasn't going to be possible. He had no idea how Oliver had come back before. He wasn't going to pretend that he'd understood the man, his ways.

But he was pretty sure that Oliver was dead this time. He'd felt for a pulse, found none. Filled out the mountains of paperwork, reassured the police officer who'd fired the shot.

He didn't see how Oliver could come back this time.

Even tho' a small part of him hoped. He angrily pushed that part down.

"Come on. Let's go. There's nothing here."

"The message..."

"Leave it. We know who wrote it."

He turned and stalked out.

God, he wanted a drink.

>>>\----------->

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #####  [Playlist - Grist: I will burn your world to ash (and let you watch it die)](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL99Djnb8oDmjBowOAnMFVFQJOiIdpnuSL)
> 
> ##### The introduction to a longer piece, diving deep into thoughts of revenge and consequences and the spiralling out-of-control that such things can lead to.
> 
> ##### Originally intended as a one-shot, then I realized that there was more of the story that I desired to tell. So I allowed my readers to tempt me into writing and posting the rest of it.
> 
> ##### Please, comment, leave kudos, all the things that let me know that you're out there.
> 
> ##### -B!


	2. for want of a cup of coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But as they say, for want of a horseshoe nail an entire kingdom was lost. 
> 
> Or in this case, for want of a cup of coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ##### Thanks to my sister-in-spirit and fellow-ficcer [Rioghna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rioghna/pseuds/Rioghna), for plotting above and beyond the call of duty, leading me to new highs of lows, my husband, Mike, for reminding me of the power of the people, and [RogueFanKC](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RogueFanKC/pseuds/RogueFanKC) for inspiring additional ideas.
> 
> ##### This story would not be as good as it is without them.
> 
> ##### My deepest thanks *bows*
> 
> ##### -B!

>>>\----------->

The Dream died on a Tuesday. Not in the Glades, but because of it.

It died, cornered in a back-alley, riddled with bullets.

And Felicity Smoak went mad with grief.

She'd not even had the closure of being with him at the end. She'd only been able to listen, horrified, as her world fell apart, see, shattered, as the possibilities in her life narrowed down to one.

She'd heard. She'd seen.

But she hadn't been there.

And with every replay on the news, with every time she heard Lance's voice on the screen, seen his face smugly sorrowful for the cameras as he spoke of what happens when the wealthy are allowed to think they are above the law, the hole in her heart grew deeper.

Nature abhors a vacuum.

What filled it was madness.

Lance had destroyed her world.

 _Very well,_ the part of her that was filled with ones and zeros said. _We will make him pay. Destroy his world as he has destroyed ours. Shatter his life, his hopes, his dreams, as he has shattered ours._

 _Balance. Karma._ An echo of what sounded suspiciously like ' _Vengeance._ ' but she wasn't quite able to hear.

At first, she managed to retain enough sanity to at least try to keep the collateral damage to a minimum.

It was the police she was angry with, the police upon whom she wanted her revenge, but the function of the police was to protect the city, a function that even in her grief, she admitted she and hers could not do alone.

Fine. She would allow them to protect the city. But they would find their lives beyond that to be a misery.

She knew from her days as an office peon that it was the little things that mattered, the little luxuries that helped you get through day after endless day.

Take those away and the structure would begin to crumble from within.

Chip away at a foundation long enough and the structure falls.

Felicity Smoak would see to that.

>>>\----------->

The first inkling they had that anything was wrong when when the coffee ran out. It was an annoyance, nothing more. One of the support staff put in a call to the vendor, the desk sergeant sent someone down the street to the local coffee-shop for replacements, and life went on.

But, as they say, for want of a horseshoe nail an entire kingdom was lost.

Or in this case, for want of a cup of coffee.

>>>\----------->

"Where the hell is that coffee I asked for?" Lance snapped at the luckless cop who'd managed to be the one to draw the short straw about telling him.

"I'm sorry, sir. The coffee's out again."

"I thought we fixed that." He glared at the officer, who swallowed before answering.

"So did they." The officer paused before continuing slowly. "Apparently, this time, our whole account was cancelled in their systems."

Lance closed his eyes in frustration. "Fix it. And tell them that if they can't keep track of our account, then maybe they don't need it."

"Yes, sir," the officer said before fleeing Lance's office.

Lance rubbed a hand over his face in frustration. God, he wanted a drink.

It had been little things like that all week.

If it wasn't the coffee, it was the snack machines running out, and when the vendor was called, them saying in an extremely confused tone of voice that they'd just had someone out and what did they mean the machine was empty?

Lance knew from his years of experience on the streets that it was amazing what a small gift of a soda, a snack, could do for getting a suspect to open up, a witness to come forward with that vital piece of information.

So it mattered when the machines were empty.

It mattered when the coffeepot was empty, and he had to take valuable personnel to go run for refills.

Not to mention, the toll on the petty-cash.

These things mattered, and it was a less-glamorous part of his job to make sure they flowed just as surely as the justice did.

And yes, sure, it was a big bureaucracy, and yeah, sure, things happened.

Requisitions got lost. Orders got misplaced or misfiled.

But there is a saying: Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times, it's enemy action.

Lance was beginning to wonder.

>>>\----------->

By the time it had escalated to orders for toilet paper and the occasional rolling blackout that seemed to only affect police headquarters and the precinct buildings, he was sure of it.

But who? But why?

Those, of course, were the questions.

The answers... he had his suspicions. But suspicions are not proof.

And whoever it was, they were being careful to cover their tracks, leave no evidence of their presence behind, save the results.

>>>\----------->

When dealing with a nuclear reactor, there is a thing known as a 'cascading failure'.

Things go wrong, causing other things to go wrong. Captain Lance was beginning to think he was living through a 'cascading failure'.

First it was the coffee. Then the toilet-paper and the blackouts that only seemed to occur when there were things like back-ups going on, or the syncing-of-paperwork so necessary to every office these days.

Other things, less benign. Lance had discovered that his officers could no longer order new uniforms. The authorizations had simply disappeared, and without them, they were not legal to sell, so their suppliers had said, with regret, that until those authorizations were replaced, there would be no further sales to the SCPD.

Lance swore. Started to call the Commissioner, slammed down the phone in irritation as he remembered.

That was the other thing. Calls and voice-mails were simply vanishing into the telephonic ether, never to be heard, or heard from, again.

Thankfully, 911-calls and requests for backup were still getting through, but everything else on both phone and radio were just... gone.

 _THAT_ had been discovered after the memorable squad-room session in which half-a-dozen officers reported screaming matches at home when calls were never returned.

And lately, the computers had been going wonky. Not a terribly precise term, he knew, but it fit.

About the only thing the SCPD's computers could be relied on for these days was a rousing game of Solitaire, and that, not always.

Certainly anything to do with police business, and they froze, worse than a rookie facing their first suspect.

Rebooting didn't help.

Replacing the machines, the software, didn't help.

Taking the machines offline didn't help.

Nothing did.

And that was when the face in his mind started to get a little clearer.

The suspicions a little deeper.

But suspicions are not proof.

But the bastard's funeral was tomorrow.

She would be there. There was no way she wouldn't be.

Felicity Smoak would be there for the funeral of Oliver Queen.

He would go.

Pay his respects.

Get some answers.

Get some proof.

>>>\----------->

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #####  [Playlist - Grist: I will burn your world to ash (and let you watch it die)](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL99Djnb8oDmjBowOAnMFVFQJOiIdpnuSL)
> 
> ##### So... the good news/bad news is that there is a LOT more of this story than I first thought.
> 
> ##### Good news for those of you enjoying this story. Bad news for the author, namely me, who is finding this a hard story to write. Dark is neither my natural nor preferred habitat.
> 
> ##### Be that as it may.
> 
> ##### In other thoughts, the quote "Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times, it's enemy action." is from 'Goldfinger' by Ian Fleming.
> 
> ##### "The Dream died on a Tuesday." is my homage to the wondrous story, also quite dark, by [sarcastic_fina](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcastic_fina/pseuds/sarcastic_fina), ['if terror falls upon your bed, and sleep no longer comes (remember all the words I said)'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1669838)
> 
> ##### The title and the tone of this tale were inspired by ['light a match, burn the world to ash (I will watch it die, and hold your hand as I fly)' ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1263136/chapters/2605645)also by [sarcastic_fina](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcastic_fina/pseuds/sarcastic_fina)
> 
> ##### Hope you are enjoying the story, if that is the right word to use for such a tale.
> 
> ##### Please do share your thoughts, feelings, responses, etc. to the story by leaving a comment and/or kudos. They really do help the writing move along, and for this story, especially, I will be grateful for all the help I can get.
> 
> ##### -B


	3. Ashes to Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver Queen's funeral seen through a glass darkly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ##### Continued thanks to my sister-in-spirit and fellow-ficcer [Rioghna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rioghna/pseuds/Rioghna), for plotting above and beyond the call of duty, leading me to new highs of lows, my husband, Mike, for reminding me of the power of the people, and [RogueFanKC](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RogueFanKC/pseuds/RogueFanKC) for inspiring additional ideas, this chapter, the notion that Lance would be even less well-received than I had first thought..
> 
> ##### This story would not be as good as it is without them.
> 
> ##### My deepest thanks *bows*
> 
> ##### -B!

The morning of Oliver Queen's funeral dawned sunny and clear, mocking her grief.

She dressed in black – she'd worn nothing else since Oliver Queen had died, thought she never would again. She couldn't stand the thought of the bright colors she'd once thought so pretty, before her world went to endless night.

Her clothes matched her mood. The only brightness in her days now was playing with the S.C.P.D., seeing what new irritations she could bring to their days, devising new plans to throw sand and sandals into their works.

It was the only thing that brought even the slightest pleasure to her days now.

It was the only thing that felt like it ever would.

There was a part of her that wasn't even sure why she was going to the funeral. It wasn't as if they hadn't said the words before, the other times the world thought Oliver Queen was dead.

She'd been there, back in December, as the team held their own memorial, quiet words spoken where the world couldn't hear, the cold of the winter matching the chill in their hearts.

She'd even slipped into the crowd of mourners the first time the world mourned his passing, a quiet presence at the back of the crows/crowd, grieving the death of the cute blond boy she'd only ever met in passing, in a picture in an office.

It was hard to believe that it was only mere months ago that they had grieved. That they had then looked on, stunned, as a miracle occurred and Oliver Queen walked back into their lives, alive.

There would be no miracle today. As much as Felicity Smoak might wish otherwise, she knew that today, she went to mourn Oliver Queen's death in truth.

And with that knowledge, her heart broke a little more. And with that breaking, a little bit more of her sanity, her soul, slipped away.

>>>\----------->

She drove to the Queen estate in silence. While Thea had closed the house after her mother's death, when she chose to move to the city to escape the ghosts, she was insistent that her brother be buried on their land, the one remnant of their former wealth.

Felicity had been glad to help Thea keep the place, altering property tax bills to show as paid, and anything else she could do to help ensure that Thea retained ownership of the house that held so many memories for her, both good and bad, but all part of her heritage.

Now, as she drove up the gravelled driveway, around to the parking for the staff and vendors, she could only think of her own heritage, her own family, and compare them to what she saw all around her.

She realized now that while she'd grown up in Vegas, surrounded by glitter of a far different sort, she'd always had love in abundance. Sometimes it was more like love in absence, as her mother put on her six-inch heels for one more night and went to tease another round of tips out of drunken men thankfully too far gone to do anything about it, but not so far gone that they couldn't appreciate the sights that lay before them, but still, it was always love.

Neither Thea nor Oliver were big for talking about their pasts, but somehow Felicity Smoak got the distinct impression that love had never been a big priority for this family.

Loyalty, yes. Demanded and absolute.

But love? No, that was a foreign language never learned, never spoken.

A language she knew well.

Had known.

Before her world collapsed into a black hole of endless night and nightmare.

She got out of her car, did all the mechanical things of grabbing her purse, locking the car, setting the alarm. She realized belatedly that she probably didn't need to do those last two here, but it was habit, and she didn't feel like expending the energy to change the pattern now.

She walked back to the family plot, a site she was becoming all too familiar with. The raw earth of the freshly-dug grave matched the rawness of her heart.

She saw the new headstone for Oliver's grave, the date changed to match this new reality, next to the headstone for Moira's grave, the marker for Robert's.

 _So much pain and loss and death in one family,_ she thought. _All gone within a few short years._

“Thank you for coming.” Felicity startled, coming back to herself to find Thea standing next to her, staring at Oliver's grave.

Felicity nodded. The words were another thing that had gone. The rambles that Oliver had alternately been delighted and exasperated by, gone as if they had never been.

They stood there silently as the others arrived. A soft touch on her arm proved to be Roy.

“It's time.” He spoke to both of them, guided Thea to her seat when Felicity shook her head at his offer to escort her as well. The man who should have done it was the one they were there to honor, and for all they'd never taken the chances offered, she felt the widow just the same.

The few steps to her seat were the longest she'd ever taken in her life. Because this time it was real. Because this time she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that there was no returning.

For him.

For her.

Thea gestured to a place in the front next to her, but Felicity shook her head. She wouldn't be on display, even here with only a few beyond what was left of the friends and family. Instead, she would go into the anonymity of the background, where she preferred to live, where she had lived a comfortable and comforting life until Oliver Queen had told a simple I.T. girl she could be so much more.

She wondered where he was now. Hoped he was out of pain at last.

There had to be some good that came out of this.

Somewhere.

No matter how small.

She turned her attention to the priest who had begun speaking while she was in her reverie.

"We are gathered here today to say farewell to Oliver Jonas Queen...” _again_ “...and to commit him...” _finally_ “...into the hands of God.” The voices in her head refused to admit to the finality, the sanctity of this moment, and insisted on making the gallows humor inside her head.

Oliver Queen had been declared dead so many times before, that now that it was a reality, a finality, there was a part of her that simply refused to believe.

The rest of her took care of that part, carefully shielded it from the reality of what lay before them, fed it tea and cookies and denial while the rest of them planned the world's destruction.

They shielded that part now, as the priest droned on and the weight in her chest grew heavier as the reality built around them all that this time, Oliver Queen was well and truly dead.

>>>\----------->

After the service was over, when Felicity stood there, surrounded by the members of her team, all nearly as shattered as she, an unwelcome presence came up to them.

For a long moment, they all simply stared, unable to believe the sheer... audacity, chutzpah, suicidal tendencies, something... it took for him to be here, now of all times.

“Ms Smoak,” Captain Lance said. “A word, if you please?”

For a long moment, she simply stared at the man, registering neither his presence nor his words.

“Ms Smoak,” he repeated.

She came back to herself. “I have nothing to say to you, Captain Lance.”

“Well, I have a few things to say to you.” At her blank stare, he went ahead anyway. “Funny things have been happening around the precinct lately. Little things, things that most people would chalk up to co-incidence. Except that they all started after Oliver Queen's death." She flinched at the word, but said nothing, continued staring off into the space that only she could see. "Except that they all have a computer at their heart. Now who around here knows computers, Ms Smoak? And who has a grudge against the department? In my line of work, we call that motive, Ms Smoak.”

Before he could continue, Thea came up to him. “This is a private ceremony, Captain.” Thea said, channelling every bit of poise and privilege that she could, a young queen in more than name.

“Just stopping by to pay my respects,” he said in a faux-innocent tone that no-one believed.

“If you really meant to pay your respects, you wouldn't be here.” She challenged him, fire in her eyes. “And you wouldn't have had him killed in the first place.”

“Careful, Ms Queen. You're grieving, I understand that, but those are some serious accusations you're making there. I'd be careful of my words, if I were you.”

“And I'd be careful where I walk." she snapped. "This is some rough ground out here. I'd hate to have you fall and hurt yourself.” She looked at Diggle, who was looking as if he'd like nothing better than to escort the police captain off the property, preferably by the ears. “Diggle, would you be so kind as to escort this... gentleman out? He said he came to pay his respects, which he has done. And now it's time for him to leave.”

Diggle nodded, reached for Lance's arm. Lance shook the other man off. “This is police business. I have a right to be here.”

“Do you have a warrant?” At Lance's reluctant shake of the head, Diggle said, low and deadly. “Then you _don't_ have a right to be here. The lady asked you to leave. As of now, you are trespassing. You will either leave with me now, willingly, or I will call your own people to come and remove you, by force if necessary. Your choice.”

The look Lance shot at Diggle should have fried him on the spot. But he moved to go. “Thank you for your time, Miss Smoak,” he said, as if it had been an ordinary encounter. “Ms Queen, I'm sorry for your loss.”

Roy laid a quick hand on Thea's arm before she could strike out at the police officer.

“Let it go, Thea,” he whispered urgently. Thea jerked her head in angry acquiescence.

“You know nothing about loss. Yet.” Felicity finally spoke, her words as blank, as empty of emotion, as her expression.

“Is that a threat, Ms Smoak?”

“Merely an observation, Captain.” She resumed staring off into the distance as if none of them were there.

Diggle escorted the police captain away. Beside her, Felicity heard Roy speaking quietly to Thea, no doubt words of comfort.

Felicity shuddered, once, as the tension left her. She dimly heard the sounds of the others hovering around her, asking if she were all right, if there was anything she needed.

Oliver. She needed Oliver.

Alive. By her side.

If she couldn't have that, there was nothing she needed.

Except her revenge.

And that she would have, in full measure.

The words she'd spoken earlier were true.

Lance knew nothing of loss.

Yet.

But he would.

She would see to that.

>>>\----------->

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #####  [Playlist - Grist: I will burn your world to ash (and let you watch it die)](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL99Djnb8oDmjBowOAnMFVFQJOiIdpnuSL)
> 
> ##### Here you go. Written on an Arrow Wednesday, tho' not posted until the wees of Thursday.
> 
> ##### Not as far as I expected to get, but the break makes sense, as it turns out. And it's still 1800 words, so I am not feeling particularly apologetic. ;-D
> 
> ##### Please let me know if you are enjoying this story. It is being very emotionally hard to write and the comments help me know that you are out there, and that there's a point to continuing.
> 
> ##### -B!


	4. Interlude: Nocturne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night after the funeral Felicity Smoak is busy.
> 
> And interrupted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ##### Thanks to [Anakinflair](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Anakinflair/pseuds/Anakinflair) for sparking the thought... Merlyn would have been there at the funeral. Would have seen what happened after. So where was he? And specifically, the thought of a black-fletched arrow shot into a very specific place/person.
> 
> ##### Thanks also to [RogueFanKC](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RogueFanKC/pseuds/RogueFanKC) for the suggestion that Laurel would at least try to talk Felicity out of her mad crusade.
> 
> ##### As ever, thanks to my sister-in-spirit and fellow-ficcer [Rioghna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rioghna/pseuds/Rioghna), for plotting above and beyond the call of duty, leading me to new highs of lows, and my husband, Mike, for reminding me of the power of the people.
> 
> ##### Finally, deepest and sincerious thanks to everybody who is reading, and especially those kind + wonderful souls who are leaving kudos, comments, and general good wishes. They are always appreciated, for this story even more so.
> 
> ##### -B!

 >>>\----------->

That night, as Felicity stared off into the distance, taking a break from her screens, giving her eyes a rest, trading the blur of numbers for the pain of seeing her old life surround her, another part of Oliver's past, of hers, walked in the room.

“I am sorry for your loss.”

“What are you doing here, Merlyn?” A distant part of her mind thought that she should be far more concerned than she was, while the rest of it was simply too tired to care where on the spectrum of enemy, ally, or neutral, Malcolm Merlyn was figuring tonight.

“I came to offer you my services,” he said. “I saw Captain Lance was harassing you today at the funeral. I could take care of that for you.”

“No. Thanks.” she said. “I've got Lance handled. And I don't need to pay your price.”

“What price would that be, my little silicon blonde? He was my son.” Pain and passion mixed in his voice, and Felicity turned around at the sound.

“ _Tommy_ was your son.” She glared at him.

He shook his head. “No.” Felicity gave him a disbelieving look. “Yes, he was Rebecca's. And he was mine, once upon a time. But after the League...” he shook his head. “I had no son any more. Not of my body.” His gaze met Felicity's. “But Oliver always had it in him, for all he tried to deny it. Those who took him, they created nothing that wasn't already there.”

He turned, walked a few paces away, picked up an arrow, held the weight of it in his hands, weighing, judging, remembering. “Like the League did to me.”

“So you're saying Oliver was nothing but a killer?” Steel among the madness, the grief.

“No. But I am saying that Oliver always had the potential. More than most.” He rolled the arrow between his fingers. “And a good thing for him that he did.” He put the arrow back in its rack.

“How was that good?” Felicity snapped.

“Because if he hadn't, he would have died. Long before he came home.”

“Lance thinks it would have been better if he had.” She turned back to her screens.

“Lance is a fool. And he'll pay the price for his foolishness. I can see that.” He turned again. “Let me know if you change your mind. I must admit, a black-fletched arrow with Lance's name on it... would please me.”

And he was gone.

Felicity shook her head. No, she had no need of Merlyn's help. She would have her revenge herself.

She didn't need Malcolm Merlyn to make Quentin Lance and the rest of the S.C.P.D. pay.

She'd manage just fine on her own.

She went back to work.

Sabotage didn't happen by itself.

>>>\----------->

Her next visitor was more pleasing, tho' still not particularly desired.

“Felicity?” Laurel's voice rang quietly through the empty Foundry.

Felicity quickly blanked the screen before turning around.

“Yes?”

“Is what my father said true?”

“Would I tell you if it were?”

“You might." A pause. Consideration. Eyes full of a quiet grief that stared into hers before Laurel continued. "We used to be on the same team.”

Felicity refused to give in, acknowledge one more pain among so very many. “And you're also an assistant district attorney. Which, right now, should be your primary focus. So, no, I'm not going to answer your question.”

She turned away, began fiddling with papers, with her purse, anything to keep from having to look at Laurel's concern, her quiet caring.

Finally, she heard a huff of exasperated breath behind her, and the sounds of Laurel's footsteps retreating towards the door. Before the sounds of the door came to her, however, Laurel's voice rang out once more.

“You know Oliver wouldn't want you to do this.”

Felicity froze. So many things she could say to that. The words all bubbled in her throat, jockeying their way to her lips, each trying to be the first to emerge.

She forced them all down, forced them all away.

Waited until she finally heard the door, then and only then permitted the tears to start trickling down her face.

Angrily, she pushed back from the keyboard. Electronics and tears didn't mix well.

She got up, walked nervous, jerky steps around the lair. Restless, a lioness prowling her territory, searching for something she knew she wouldn't find.

Some would call it peace.

She called it Oliver.

Everywhere, everywhere, signs of him, of his presence, his mission, his essence.

Everywhere. In her heart. In her mind. In her dreams.

Everywhere but in her life.

She wiped her tears away, sat down again, pulled up the information, got back to work.

They knew nothing of loss.

Yet.

She was about to show them.

>>>\----------->

“Felicity.” The voice came about an hour later, filtering down through her concentration to register with her brain that there was someone else here.

Felicity closed her eyes. Why couldn't everyone just leave her alone? See that she was fine, didn't need their help, their offered salvation?

“Digg, what are you doing here? It's late.” She summoned up what patience she could, tried to keep the harshness from her tone. Mostly succeeded in tempering it down to a tired exasperation.

“Laurel texted me. Said I should come talk to you.”

“I've nothing to say to you either.”

“Felicity...” She turned around to snap at him, saw the haunted look in his eyes, swallowed what she had been about to say. “...I get it. When I was over there, fighting a war that started out so simple, became so complicated, I lost people too. When I came home, I lost more. I know it's not the same. I lost a brother, brothers and sisters in arms, but never a lover. Never my partner. But what I do know is, this isn't the answer.”

He walked over to her. Stared down at her, concern, compassion on his face. “You let yourself drown in this grief, it will drown you. You and everyone around you.”

She stared up at him defiantly. “I know what I'm doing, Diggle.”

“Do you?” was all he said.

She suddenly couldn't meet his eyes any longer, dropped her gaze, turned back to her screens. These she understood. Numbers. Programs. Ones and zeros. Black and white. Things were simple there. There was no question of right and wrong, should and shouldn't. There was only it worked, it failed. And while the 'why' might take a while to find, it was always there.

And it always came back to that simple equation of zeroes and ones.

“Yes.”

The moments stretched out between them. She could imagine his eyes, so warm, so caring, full of worry, staring at her, wondering what he could say, what he could do, to help.

But the answer was nothing, so she simply sat there, unmoving, until with a soft 'Take care of yourself, Felicity.', a gentle touch on her shoulder ( _the way Oliver used to do,_ a small part of her mind cried out) he was gone.

She waited until the sound of his footsteps died away, the door opened, closed, the security-system reset with a soft *beep^^. She waited a moment more, while the grief and sorrow ebbed back into the cold numbness that was her life now.

And then she got back to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #####  [Playlist - Grist: I will burn your world to ash (and let you watch it die)](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL99Djnb8oDmjBowOAnMFVFQJOiIdpnuSL)
> 
> ##### And there you have it. An unexpected bit for your weekend's/early week's entertainment.
> 
> ##### Currently arguing with AO3's servers re: some drafts of 'House'-fics that I am attempting to import from LJ, but eventually, it's back to pondering the next update for this story, probably Wednesday, if I can keep my metaphorical beak to the grindstone.
> 
> ##### Speaking of. Firstly, thank you again to everyone who is reading, leaving kudos and/or comments - VASTLY appreciated!
> 
> ##### Secondly, please keep doing that. This is not an easy story to write and knowing you're out there, reading, appreciating, desiring more, really helps keep me motivated and consulting with my Muse(s) to bring you more story.
> 
> ##### As an added bonus, comments have already brought both more and better story to you. Win-win-wing! :D
> 
> ##### So please, read, comment, leave kudos if you haven't already done so, share on social media as you find appropriate and in general let me know you are out there and enjoying the ride.
> 
> ##### Thank you so much!
> 
> ##### -B!


	5. Dust to Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The siege continues. Lance thinks fondly of taking a drink and makes some unauthorized visits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ##### Thank [Rioghna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rioghna/pseuds/Rioghna) for this update - certainly happening today, quite possibly happening at all. Had some Serious Stucks around this bit that her Fount of Semi-Useless Trivia helped me get past, as it, and she, so often do.
> 
> ##### Past that, the usual thank-yous apply: my husband, Mike, and you, my wonderful readers, commenters, and kudo-leavers. Thank you all so very much.
> 
> ##### -B!

>>>\----------->

The siege continued.

Every day, Captain Lance would arrive at the station to find something new gone amiss or astray or outright wrong. Every day, he thought ever more longingly of hitting the bottle he knew that his sergeant kept in his desk.

Things just kept coming.

Things like the fact that every time he sent a request to headquarters to replace the authorizations for the uniform suppliers to sell to the S.C.P.D. they went awry, either missing or so garbled that the results were not legally binding.

Things like the fact that the vendors for their office supplies and coffee/snacks had started simply showing up, because the orders were not registering properly, and said suppliers got sick and tired of being yelled at by whichever luckless officer drew the short straw that day.

This led to there being either an overabundance or shortage of these essential supplies on any given day.

Or both, like the time they got two cases of decaf coffee and several boxes of filters, all the wrong size. Or the time that they got fifty boxes of teabags and no coffee at all.

Now there were new screw-ups to add to the list of petty and not-so-petty annoyances: orders for ammo were either never filled or filled incorrectly, gasoline shipments had simply stopped coming, and departmental credit cards were declined when they tried to use civilian stations, they received the wrong car parts when the parts bothered to come at all, and teargas became a forgotten luxury.

Various H.R.-based nightmares started coming across his desk as well, as if the supply snafus weren't enough.

Vacation requests were disappearing into the same ether as the phone calls, and benefits were being calculated incorrectly when they were being applied at all.

Paperwork that was being sent for retirees arrived as if for new hires.

New hires were being sent paperwork for retirement.

Both cases resulted in a great deal of both startlement and upset, which Lance needed to smooth over as best he could, soothing the officers with promises to make sure it was all corrected, and soothing himself with fond thoughts of what he'd do to Felicity Smoak when she finally slipped up.

Which she would.

They all did.

And he was counting the moments until it happened.

Schedules started being written station-by-station and by hand, posted on a bulletin-board because no-one could trust the software or the computers themselves any more.

And then the checks started bouncing.

Paychecks. Checks to their vendors. It didn't matter. Any check the S.C.P.D. wrote to anybody was no good.

Except the ones they didn't write. To companies they'd never heard of, for things they never ordered.

Such as the several pallets of condoms and the three boxes of ladies' razors that showed up one day, much to everyone's surprise and no-one's delight.

A couple of cases of novelty gummy candies in the shape of penises showed up a few days later at Lance's precinct. That was the day the snack vendors had failed to show up at all, and the officers were desperate enough for snacks to eat them anyway, no matter what they looked like.

That wouldn't have been so bad, if someone (he never found out who, tho' he'd tried) hadn't snapped a picture and put it out on social media, where, unsurprisingly, it went viral in a matter of moments. When he discovered the unpleasant fact that his department was now even more of a laughingstock than it had been (' _You are what you eat_ ' being one all-too-memorable caption)Lance seriously considered pulling out what remained of his hair, and he did find himself walking over to his sergeant’s desk before he caught himself, turned around, and stomped back to his office, barely avoiding slamming the door behind him.

The accounts these checks were drawn on were frozen, except for the ones that had been redirected, which explained both the bouncing and why strange shipments were appearing out of nowhere. When Captain Lance went to the bank himself in order to withdraw some cash to pay his people that way, he was apologetically refused, an apology which faded quickly when he came two shades from threatening the teller. He managed to leave before he had the displeasure of having security remove him, but it was a near thing.

Not that _everyone_ didn't get paid. Some did. But since they were getting paid from accounts that had been rerouted, no-one could tell who would get paid, or when. As a result, cops started withdrawing their money immediately, for fear that it would disappear, but that led to its own problems.

Word got out on the street that paydays were a time of easy pickings as cops carried large sums of cash home to secret in, on, or under whatever version of a mattress they felt comfortable using.

And all their training wasn't enough to save them from thieves who didn't care about the results, only about the cash, and relished the opportunity to get a little of what they perceived as their own back, besides.

After the third police officer went to the hospital in as many days, Lance had had more than enough.

He was going to get his proof, one way or the other.

Before things got even more out of hand.

Before more people got hurt.

>>>\----------->

He banged into the glass-walled office at Palmer Technologies, ignoring the assistant's frantic questions about did he have an appointment and would he wait while he checked to see if Ms Smoak was available. He flashed his badge at the young man and kept moving.

"You happy now?" he snapped as Felicity looked up to see who it was that was entering in such an unmannerly fashion.

Her eyes grew blank in that way that Lance had learned over many long years meant that someone was hiding something.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Do you? Well, let me show you." He pulled out his phone, pulled up the newsflash that he kept rereading, unable and unwilling to get it out of his mind.

It kept his anger fresh, his fury directed at one source.

## SCPD up in arms – third officer in three days hospitalized

He wasn't sure, but he might have seen a flash of something that looked like regret in her eyes before she turned away, back to her screens.

"I'm sorry to read that, Captain. But what does it have to do with me?"

Before Lance could do more than stare at her in a confused mix of dumbfounded appreciation for her audacity and sheer fury at her response, the door opened again, more quietly, to reveal a silently seething Ray Palmer.

"May I ask what you're doing here, attacking my employee?" Ray said softly, his tone doing far more to convey his anger than shouting would have done.

"I am questioning her in relation to a police matter," Lance countered, refusing to be intimidated by the one-percenter.

One eyebrow shot up to Ray's hairline. "Really? Do you have a warrant for her arrest, Captain? Because from what I understand from her assistant, it sounded a whole lot more like you were levying an accusation at her. Loudly."

"Hearsay isn't evidence."

"And I was not aware this was a trial. Now, do you have anything to say to my employee of a legal nature? If not, I'm going to ask you to leave." Ray moved between Lance and Felicity, a gesture not lost on the police officer.

"Ms Smoak, seems you get around," he sneered, his insinuation plain. He paused, got his temper under control. "Think on what I told you. Innocent people are getting hurt. That used to matter to you."

He wasn't sure, but he thought he heard, "And justice used to matter to you." as he left.

>>>\----------->

After the police officer had disappeared, Ray turned to Felicity. "Would you care to tell me what that was all about?"

"No." A gentle hand fell on her shoulder and she looked up to see caring brown eyes staring down into hers. "You know you can always talk to me, right?"

She shook her head. "Not this time."

"Look, I know what he meant to you." At her startled gasp, he smiled at her, a small, sad smile that most definitely did not reach his eyes. "I'm not blind, Felicity. I know you cared for him. I simply deluded myself into thinking you cared for me more."

He turned to go, paused. "When Anna died, I wanted to destroy the world too. Hurt everyone I thought had played a part in her death. Turns out, the biggest person I hurt was myself." He turned back to her. "Don't hurt yourself, Felicity."

And he was gone.

>>>\----------->

After he left, she pulled up the news feeds. Saw the truth of Lance's words. Swallowed, hard, thought about what she was doing. Lance's caring for his people. Ray's caring for her.

Were they enough? Were they enough to turn the tide? Turn her from her path?

Were they enough to bring her peace?

No. They were not.

She shook her head angrily, clearing it of the visions.

She would not be denied.

She would have her revenge.

She got back to work.

>>>\----------->

Lance returned to the precinct to find a messenger from the Commissioner's office waiting. "The Commissioner would like a word, sir." When he showed no signs of moving, she added, "Now, sir.". She reached out to take him by the arm. He dodged her.

"All right." he snapped, grabbing his coat again, following her out of the precinct to the waiting car.

The ride to the S.C.P.D. headquarters was tense, short, and mutually unpleasant, if his escort's facial expression was anything to go by.

They were shown into the commissioner's office right away. "Ma'am," his escort said to the commissioner before leaving him to his fate.

"You know what happened today, Captain Lance?" the commissioner asked, with a subtle emphasis on the word 'captain' that let him know she was wondering how long he'd be keeping it.

"No, ma'am." Silence was clearly the better part of survival here.

"I received a call from one Ray Palmer, current owner and C.E.O. of Palmer Technologies. Ring a bell?" Before he could decide whether answering her clearly-rhetorical question was in his best interests or not, she took the decision out of his hands. "It should. He seemed pretty clear on who you were. And also on what you were doing there. Verbally attacking one of his employees in a way that, and I quote, 'left me afraid for her safety.'. Now why, would he have told me that?" Her words were cold, steel under every syllable of them.

"Ma'am," he began, trying to make her see. "I have reason to believe that Felicity Smoak is behind the attacks on this department."

"Do you have proof?"

"No." He shook his head. "But I have my people..."

"When they do,” she cut him off. “arrest her. Until then, I want you to leave Felicity Smoak alone. Or I'll replace you with someone who will. Understand me?"

"Yes, ma'am." Sullen stiffness under the words, but she ignored it.

"One more thing. I seem to recall you saying something about how no-one should be above the law, that that was why we had to hunt down the Arrow, show this city that we would not tolerate vigilante justice." Her eyes bore into his. "Did you mean it? Or was that just more words?" She turned back to the papers on her desk, a clear dismissal.

"Ma'am," he said again and walked out, angry, but smart enough not to show it.

No, he would not be leaving Felicity Smoak alone. But he would be more careful in how he sought his proof.

He would not give Felicity the satisfaction of knowing that she had cost him his command, possibly even his badge. No, he would keep those.

But he would also make sure that she paid in full for his people's pain.

He went back to work.

>>>\----------->

When Felicity returned to the Foundry, she found Thea's car in the parking lot. It had been this way a lot lately. Yes, as the club's manager, and _de facto_ owner now that Oliver was dead, Felicity knew that Thea needed to be there early, but this was long before even that.

Felicity walked into the club to find Thea there, with a bottle and a glass in front of her. She'd been doing that more and more too.

"Come drink w'me," Thea slurred, waving the bottle vaguely in Felicity's direction.

"One glass.” Felicity replied firmly. “Then I have to get to work."

"Wha' ya doin' down there anyway?" Thea asked, full of curiosity and drunkeness. "'s not healthy, bein' down there all alone."

Felicity thought about replying ' _and neither is getting drunk off your ass every night_ ', but decided against it.

It would do no good, and besides, she was hardly in a place to talk about healthy behaviors. So, instead, she went behind the bar, grabbed herself a wineglass, and sat down across from Thea.

She poured, lifted her glass in a salute. "To Oliver," she said and the voices in her head echoed her toast.

"To Oliver," Thea answered, the name pulling her back from the depths for a brief moment.

Felicity drained her glass, set it down, rose to go.

Thea pulled at her sleeve. "Stay with me. I can't handle the ghosts," Pleading eyes full of pain stared into hers, the force of her please/plea clearing her words for a moment.

Regretfully, Felicity pulled herself away. "I'm sorry," she said, surprised to find she actually meant it. "But I have things I have to do."

"Wha' ya doin' down there?" Thea asked again, concern now mixing with the alcohol.

Felicity shook her head. "You don't want to know, Thea," she said gently, before going to the entrance to the lair and disappearing down the stairs.

It was time to get back to work.

>>>\----------->

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #####  [Playlist - Grist: I will burn your world to ash (and let you watch it die)](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL99Djnb8oDmjBowOAnMFVFQJOiIdpnuSL)
> 
> ##### There you be, an update for an 'Arrow' evening.
> 
> ##### Celebration in Mudville tonight, or something.
> 
> ##### As ever, if you are enjoying this story and would like to see it continue in a reasonably prompt fashion, please take a moment and leave a comment, a kudo if you you haven't already done so, and in general, please-and-thank-you let me know you're out there and reading and enjoying the ride. It really-truly helps keep me inspired and consulting with the Muse(s) to bring you more Story-Goodness.
> 
> ##### -B!
> 
> ##### P.S. Bonus Sparkle Points if you can guess who took the picture. -B! 


	6. Storm Warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Various alarming events on the streets, and in the buildings, of Starling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ##### Many, many thanks to my beta and evilogist, my sister [Rioghna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rioghna/pseuds/Rioghna) for her excellent helps with this chapter, including the theme song for this chapter ['Storm Warning' by I am Kloot](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fmVtH5nbp30&;feature=youtu.be). 
> 
> ##### Thanks also to my husband, [MikeDiamond](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MikeDiamond/pseuds/MikeDiamond) for suggestions of some of the ways that Lance gets driven ever more over the edge.
> 
> ##### Thanks too go to [beviesteele](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beviesteele/pseuds/beviesteele) for the excellent suggestion of the fire alarms.
> 
> ##### -B! 

>>>\----------->

The next day, Lance went into his office to find a (hand-written, he noted) letter of resignation on his desk.

While the officer didn't ACTUALLY come right out and say so, Lance could tell. The uncertainty of being a police-officer in Starling City was finally beginning to take its toll.

Every officer on the force knew that they could die every time they put on the uniform.

They accepted that.

What they could not accept was the fact that the station-house had become as chaotic as the streets, that there was no longer the comforting sense of safety there that they depended on as a respite from the demands of the job, of the badge.

So while that was the first letter of resignation, it was far from the last.

And no wonder.

Disconcerting at best, and deeply disturbing in general, were the death notices that started appearing in the system.

Of officers who were most decidedly still alive.

Just not on paper.

No less disconcerting, and considerably more annoying, were the times when officers appeared on the 'no-fly' list, and other forms of terrorist-control.

Lance had the devil's own time convincing the various authorities involved that no, he did not _actually_ have convicted terrorists on his force, despite what it looked like.

But when it came to embarrassing and enraging encounters with authorities, the topper came a few days later.

It started off as a day like any other. With all the good and bad that meant these days.

Lance had just settled in behind his desk for another day of putting out the fires that Felicity Smoak kept setting ablaze, when, in a gesture that Lance would have found suspiciously ironic had he had a moment to think about it, the fire alarm went off.

Immediately, they went into the drill – evacuating all non-essential personnel, and sending officers down with hand-cuffs to rescue the prisoners.

In the middle of the evacuation, it was determined that there actually was no fire, and everyone returned to their work and workstations.

The day went on.

Until it happened again.

After the third time before shift-change, the fire chief came to have a word with him.

The big man who was the chief for Starling City's Fire Department gave Lance a pained look. “You made me come down here.” Lance recognized the tone of the aggravated father. He'd used that tone before on his daughters, when they'd been breaking the rules, and they'd known it, and done it anyway.

Long-suffering mixed with steel. He knew that tone well.

“Chief?”

“Your phones aren't working. You should have them seen to.” Lance found himself on the receiving end of a glare he remembered all-too-well from his own rookie days. “And while you're at it, either get control of your station or I will have you brought up for public safety violations. You know the damage wasting time on false alarms can cause.”

Lance was well aware of how ridiculous it would be to have to arrest his own people, including himself.

That was an irony he did not care to contemplate.

Or worse yet, do.

He gave a brusque nod.

“See that you do,” the chief said on his way out. “And fix the damn phones.”

>>>\----------->

Worse than the internal discontent was the strife that started appearing on the streets.

Again, it started small, a peaceful protest in support of the Arrow, and berating the police-brutality that taken him down.

But it didn't stop there. As the days passed, the unrest got worse, the protests more vocal and less restrained.

As the members of his force began to lose faith in themselves, so too, the public was beginning to lose faith in them.

A marriage made considerably south of heaven.

>>>\----------->

Issues of faith were happening at the Foundry too.

The cracks began to show more and more. Team Arrow had essentially died with Oliver, the tattered remnants no longer able to function as a team.

There was no agreement on tactics, on what to do. On where, how, or even if, they should act.

Felicity remained unswerving in her devotion to her cause.

The others... could only watch, helpless to turn the tide.

Sway her from her path, dissuade her from her madness, give her peace in her endless grief.

And Felicity was not the only one they watched fall, helpless to change the outcome.

To say Thea wasn't coping well with her brother's death was an understatement of epic proportions.

And as much as Roy, as Merlyn, as Laurel, tried to reach out to her, it didn't matter, didn't change anything.

Felicity grew used to hearing the shouting of an evening. The fights that ended with the sound of breaking glass, with angry words and ominous silences, or worse, slamming doors followed by silences that were somehow even more terrifying for their sheer emptiness.

Felicity didn't have the energy to care, to try to save Thea from her grief.

She didn't have the energy to save herself. Why would she have the energy to save another?

There was a part that wanted to, that wanted to be free of the numb despair, the flame-hot rage that was the only refuge from the ice.

But another part welcomed the heart-heat, terrified that if they let it go, nothing would be able to stop the icy advance that threatened to enclose them all in endless winter.

The final blow came one night when the words were worse than ever, the shouting going on for what seemed like hours after the club had closed.

Felicity finally called Roy, hoping against hope that maybe he would have the words tonight that would help.

Or at least be able to take her home to sleep it off.

She heard his voice enter the fray, the volume of Thea's grow louder, the words still hidden in the midst of drunkenness and despair.

Finally, there was a crescendo, a barrage of breaking glass, then silence.

Felicity turned back to her screens. It was nothing she hadn't heard a thousand times growing up. The drunk were nothing if not predictable. And Vegas or Starling, didn't matter.

The one truth about both those places was that you couldn't save someone who didn't want saving.

A truth that both she and Thea seemed to share.

In the meantime, there was work to be done.

Felicity went back to it.

>>>\----------->

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #####  [Playlist - Grist: I will burn your world to ash (and let you watch it die)](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL99Djnb8oDmjBowOAnMFVFQJOiIdpnuSL)
> 
> ##### There you go. Another chapter for a more-or-less Arrow evening.
> 
> ##### All honor and blessings to those who are living through riots and unrest for real. This chapter was planning before life decided to imitate art. I thought about waiting to post, but decided to go ahead. What did waiting serve? It will not help those who need it.
> 
> ##### Thanks go to all of you who have left comments, kudos, and generally let me know of your presence. It really-truly helps me stay inspired and keep in good contact with my Muse(s).
> 
> ##### Please keep on leaving comments, kudos, and suggestions. All are vastly appreciated.
> 
> ##### -B!


	7. The Queen is Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thea Queen is dead. 
> 
> Long live... nobody.

She knew.

Even before she grabbed her phone as it woke her from sleep, even before she saw that it was Roy, even before she answered it to find Roy's shaky voice telling her everything she needed to know, she knew.

"It's Thea...." was all he managed to say, but it was enough.

"Where are you?" Felicity asked, part of her grateful for the cold, the chill that insulated her from the full feeling of this latest chapter of the tragedy that was the Queen family history.

"Where are you?" she asked again when he did not answer.

"The estate..." he managed, before the horror began to catch up with him. "She's..."

"I know." Felicity cut him off. And she did know, for it was a place that she'd been thinking about herself. A place of cold comfort, but all the comfort she was likely to get any more. She'd often thought about going there, curling up, giving up, giving in to the grief that never left her.

"Stay put. I'll call the others. We'll meet you there."

She presumed he nodded, because he cut the connection without another word.

>>>\----------->

Swipe. Click. A few words of information, of request, before closing and moving on to the next, while all the while the ice grew deeper, grew larger, moving forward in an implacable glacier of cold.

But below it, the flames were beginning to rise to meet it.

Flames of fury.

>>>\----------->

She walked out under the dawning sky, the first rays of light beginning to light Oliver's grave and the slumped form that lay atop it, the huddled form that knelt next to it.

She felt a rush of displaced air, and beside her, a form in black appeared, rushed over to the body, knelt down.

And then Felicity heard something she'd never expected to hear in all her days.

The sound of Malcolm Merlyn crying.

She walked up to Roy, touched his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," was all she said. So inadequate, but all she had to give.

He nodded. Pulled on all the steel he'd learned on the streets, all the discipline he'd learned from Oliver. She saw the change in his body, his stance, as he put his grief away long enough to report.

"I found her like this. I'd been trying to contact her all night. To apologize for whatever stupid thing I'd said last night. I can't even remember now. But she didn't answer. So this morning I went looking for her. And..." he gestured at the body.

She nodded. Walked over to where Merlyn held the body of his daughter, looked down. Beside them, a purse, obviously designer, stuffed with money. A note lay on the ground beside it.

Felicity picked it up, not bothering with crime-scene protocol. After everything she'd been witness to the last few months, everything she'd felt herself, she knew that Thea Queen had died by her own hand.

She picked up the note and read silently.

_Roy,_

_I can't do this. I'm sorry._

_Use this money to get yourself out of the Glades, go as far away from here as you can._

_I wish it could be more. I wish I didn't hurt so much. I wish things could have been different. I wish..._

 

The writing ended there, the pen fallen on the ground beside it, dropped when the hand that held it could no longer work.

"We need to call someone," Felicity said finally. As much as a part of her wanted to simply handle this herself, she knew that, this time, they needed to bring in the outside world.

"I know someone," came a voice from below. Felicity narrowed her eyes. Having the mercy to call the man to come and grieve his daughter was one thing. To trust him to take care of the situation was quite another.

He didn't look at her, continued gazing down at his daughter's face. "In my line of work, it's helpful to know doctors who will sign a death certificate unquestioningly."

Felicity nodded. _Besides,_ the part of her mind that was filled with ones and zeros said, _it is_ perfectly _natural to die from that much booze and pills._

The rest of her said _"Fine."_ and wandered away, to add mourning cookies to the plate in her mind and wonder how much loss could they all endure before they snapped.

Or snapped worse, as the case might be, noting that thoughts like that probably didn't occur to the strictly-sane.

She dialed the number that Merlyn gave her, noting with some cynicism that he had it memorized, told the man what Merlyn told her to say in order to get him to come and sign without question, then put her phone in her pocket and stepped a few paces away to give herself some breathing room while they all waited for the next scene in the drama.

The doctor came quickly, signed a death certificate as being from natural causes, and left. It was mutually decided that it would be better for appearances if she were to be found inside by the people from the funeral home. When Merlyn made as if to take her, Roy put a hand on his arm.

"Let me." he said in a calm, quiet, yet strong voice that told without words how much he was grieving the loss of someone who'd been far more than a friend to him.

Somewhat to Felicity's surprise, Merlyn considered him a long moment, then nodded and stepped back.

Roy gently picked up Thea's body, held it close, as if she were just asleep, and carried her inside. Asked Felicity with his eyes where Thea's room was. Felicity gave him quiet instructions and he left.

The rest of them stayed downstairs, to give Roy this time with her.

To figure out what they were going to do next.

"First, we bury her," Felicity said, surprised at the clarity that allowed her to speak so firmly.

"Then what?" Diggle asked with a tired sigh.

And THAT was the question, wasn't it?

What to do now? Verdant was gone. She wasn't entirely sure what would happen to the building now that the last member of the Queen family lay dead. She could delay them for a while, falsify records and the like, but... it was time.

"Then we move." Felicity shrugged. "Verdant's gone now. The building may well be next. In any case, they know where we are."

After the rituals of a death were finished, the funeral home contacted, after they'd come and collected the body, arrangements made for a funeral at the house in a few days, they all scattered silently to their own grief.

>>>\----------->

As Felicity raised a glass of blood-red wine in salute to the memory of Thea Queen, she remembered a conversation she and Thea had had, a few days after Lance had visited her at work.

"What are you doing down there?" Thea had asked again. Sober this time, and with a tone that said she was not going to be put off again.

Felicity tried anyway. "Would it matter if I told you?" she asked.

"Yes," Thea said. "Because if you were behind all those things they say you are, I'd say 'thank you'.”

“They were wrong about my brother. And even if they weren't, even if he'd been all those things they said he was, he didn't deserve to die that way."

Felicity nodded. "No, he didn't." was all she said as she turned away, went to go downstairs and go back to a night's chaos-creation. But as she walked away, she could have sworn she heard a soft "Good hunting." behind her and the soft clink of a glass being raised in salute.

>>>\----------->

She came back to herself. Yes, it would be good hunting indeed.

Every death made the flames burn hotter.

Melted the ice enough for her to act.

It was time to get back to work.

She gathered her things, readied herself for another long night at the Foundry.

She had a lot of work to do.

>>>\----------->

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #####  [Playlist - Grist: I will burn your world to ash (and let you watch it die)](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL99Djnb8oDmjBowOAnMFVFQJOiIdpnuSL)
> 
> ##### Here ya go. Rioghna is helping me with the next bits, so they will be happening presently.
> 
> ##### Speaking of my sis-in-spirit, the line about 'It's perfectly natural to die when...' is from her fic 'Connections' - a wonderful Witchblade-fic that I keep hoping she will post on this site one of these days.
> 
> ##### Please-and-thank-you, leave comments, thoughts, kudos (if you haven't already done so), and the like. Letting me know you're out there and reading helps keep me here and writing.
> 
> ##### -B! 


	8. Interlude: No Fear of Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a moment when Felicity felt the last of her fear, and her loss, and knew. All she had to do was let go. 
> 
> Free fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ##### And with this, my sis-in-spirit joins the fray as co-author, in addition to her roles as beta and Resident Evilologist.
> 
> ##### Please welcome her to the story in your comments, etc.
> 
> ##### -B!

Malcolm Merlyn came to the Foundry that night for answers, wanting to know why his remaining child was dead. It didn't surprise Felicity at all when he showed up this time, even less than before. She had been expecting it. His face was closed, impassive as ever, that almost charming smile painted on. It was a facade though, a glacier waiting to crack, to reveal the fires inside that she knew only too well.

"I need some answers," he told her.

"I don't really have any for you, Mr. Merlyn," she said, the formality creating a needed distance. She wasn't afraid of him. She wasn't really afraid of anything anymore, or she didn't think she was. She wasn't certain she was capable of it. You had to want to be alive to be afraid.

He leaned closer, one hand on her shoulder, eyes beginning to smolder behind the masque. "Tell me," he growled low. "Tell my why my only daughter, my only remaining family, is dead."

There it was, the pain, the anger, the grief. In that moment, she understood. Clarity, it can free or it can destroy. In him, the grief had become a living thing, a force of nature, a tsunami, and she could either step aside or be swept up. No, that was wrong, it was far too late to step aside, there was only riding the wave. It was a moment when Felicity felt the last of her fear, and her loss, and knew. All she had to do was let go. 

Free fall.

"Tell me," he said again.

Felicity had only one word, that was all that was needed. "Lance." Malcolm released her, nodded once, and turned on his heel. They both knew it was goodbye.

He had just reached the door, when someone called out. Malcolm turned to see Roy, the boy who had loved her, who had lost Thea as surely as he had, emerge from the shadows. "Let me come with you. I need..." 

"Come on, kid. Let us go hunting." Now Malcolm Merlyn smiled, the smile of a tiger who knew exactly where to find his prey.

In spite of herself, Felicity shivered as they left. She knew what had just been unleashed on the streets of Starling.

But she didn't try to stop them – no, that time had past.

That Felicity had died along with Oliver and now there was only the one who wished them good hunting.

So much death.

But not nearly enough.

>>>\----------->

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #####  [Playlist - Grist: I will burn your world to ash (and let you watch it die)](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL99Djnb8oDmjBowOAnMFVFQJOiIdpnuSL)
> 
> ##### So there you go. Posted today at my sis-in-spirit's request.
> 
> ##### Again, please-and-thank-you let us know you're out there and reading by leaving comments, thoughts, feedback, etc., and kudos if you haven't already left them.
> 
> ##### They really do provide the encouragement to keep write and posting.
> 
> ##### -B!


	9. Casting the Dice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of funerals and consequences and beginnings and endings all on the streets of Starling.

O>>>\----------->

Lance sat at his desk long into the night. The report had come across his desk earlier in the day - while not listed as suspicious, Thea Queen had been wealthy enough that her death merited a report.

He sat there, staring off into the distance. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the picture on his desk of his daughters. Sara, gone now, because of that bastard. Well, no, he forced himself to admit. Lost because of her own choices, her own decisions. She'd gotten caught up in things that were bigger than she was, and been crushed under their weight.

And Laurel, laughing next to her in the frame in a way that she never again would in life. Laurel, too, was gone, for all she was still here, working over in the Justice Annex in the District Attorney's office.

God, he'd been so proud of her.

When she graduated law school, when she'd gotten the job here, instead of taking that fancy-pants job down in SoCal with all the money and no soul, when she'd really started making a difference.

Again, taken away by Oliver Queen. Or no, but no thanks to him. Almost, and still, if people dug too deeply, went searching for what he'd quietly covered up, it could all be over for her.

Why? What made women throw their lives away for this man? Sara, Laurel, Felicity Smoak, now the man's own sister, Thea.

Well, he didn't know. Some things simply weren't knowable. But while he'd sooner burn than mourn Oliver Queen, he would drink a toast to Thea.

Another life, lost too soon.

And for what.

Nothing.

He got up, to go for the bottle in his sergeant’s desk, then stopped.

What did he think he was doing? Even as a tribute, he knew he'd never stop. It was a cheap way to get the release he craved – nothing to do with the girl, no matter what part of him tried to tell him.

He sat back down, heavily. What had he been thinking of, for any of it? Here, in this moment, with the last Queen lying dead, reduced to a file-folder in front of him, he could finally ask himself the question he was beginning to realize he should have asked himself a long time ago – why?

Why had he blamed Oliver Queen for Sara's choices? She could have said no – he'd trained his girls well – they knew what to do to a boy, or a man, who tried to take things further than they wanted to go. She'd gone willingly. And as for what happened after… well, he'd trained his girls to survive, no matter what. Was it really so surprising that she'd done what she needed to in order to ensure that survival?

Why had he blamed Oliver Queen for keeping secrets? He'd kept a few himself in the day – some of them Oliver's. Some of them his own. And not all of them for as good reasons.

Which led, uncomfortably, to his new vendetta – Felicity Smoak. In this small space between night and morning, he could admit that she had a right to be angry. Hell, if she'd just gone the legal route, she could probably have made millions suing the SCPD for wrongful death – or at least Thea could have. And he had little doubt that between Thea Queen's wealth and Felicity Smoak's connections, they could have arranged a legal miracle the size of which had only been dreamed of by lawyers in their darkest nightmares.

Or their most erotic fantasies, depending.

So what was she doing? What was he doing? Did she even know any more? Did he?

How much could he blame a dead man, for how long, and how much blame was he trying to shift from his own shoulders? Which was it? Him or Queen? Both? Neither? A combination of factors, like fuel oil and fertilizer, neither particularly dangerous separately, but in combination...Or maybe just with a starter, a fuse, that once lit could not be easily put out, one that would burn their world down. Malcolm Merlyn? The League? Blood? Any? All?

These thoughts were too dark, too deep, and too painful for the night. Maybe in the light of day. He shook his head, got up. He wasn't going to go for the bottle. He was going to go home, go to bed, try to sleep and fail, and come back tomorrow to do it all again.

God, what a waste. Of what he wasn't quite sure. All of it, really.

Including his life.

O>>>\----------->

The day of the funeral dawned with a rare sunshine - the light both blessing and mockery to the young woman who was being mourned that day.

The service, even smaller, as there were few left to mourn this last member of the Queen family.

Felicity was there, her mourning blacks unchanged from the last time she stood here.

Diggle came, with Lyla and Sara. As they huddled together, a family amidst the shattered wreckage, something clutched at Felicity's heart.

And then she knew.

It was time.

Time for her to let them go. All that would leave. All that could leave.

Time for her to let them go and then finish this. Finish this and lay herself down to sleep.

She turned sharply at the sudden grip on her elbow. She knew it was Roy before she turned - they'd taught her well over the years, and she'd felt no prickle of warning that a stranger's presence would have given her. But in this moment, Roy's height was an advantage - she knew it was him before she turned her head and saw him standing there, body rigid, braced as if against a blow.

She was pleased to see him – as much as she was pleased by anything these days. She thought he'd return for this, that Thea meant more to him than revenge, but she hadn't been sure. The streets still ran deep in Roy Harper, all the more so now, so his presence had not been a certainty.

"Merlyn?" was all she asked. He shook his head 'no'. She nodded. She'd wondered whether Merlyn would come, whether seeing his daughter's body one last time would bring him in from the hunt. She'd rather suspected not - he didn't seem the type to let revenge wait for such things - but she hadn't known for sure. He would hold his own memorial, in his own way, and there was nothing that anyone could do about it, for better or for worse.

"You okay?" Roy asked, clearly forcing the social niceties out past his own pain.

"Yes," Felicity said in a tone that equally clearly meant 'no', but also that she recognized his effort. "You?"

Roy shook his head. "Nothing's going to be okay again. But outside of that... you know?"

Felicity nodded. Yes, she knew, all too well.

She continued to stare at Diggle and his family. Roy followed her gaze. "They have a life," she said. _Unlike us,_ never said, but not needed. "They should go live it."

Roy nodded. "The priest is here. We should go."

Felicity nodded, picked her way carefully over the ground to the few chairs set up there.

It was a short service, a few words of blessing spoken by the priest, who obviously did not know the family, a few moments of silence, because those who would have spoken for her could not find the words past their own grief, and the others were already in the cold ground before her, hopefully waiting to welcome her into whatever peace there was to be had, peace that Felicity hoped would be waiting for her, very soon. Then it was over, and they were all walking back to their cars.

O>>>\----------->

Interlude-- Merlyn

In the shadow of the alley, the hunter watched his prey going about his day all unknowing that he was a dead man. That whatever hopes, dreams or plans the man had, they would never happen. Like the hunter himself, for him, there was no future.

He looked at his watch. They would be saying the words now, familiar platitudes that never made anyone feel better, while the rest stood around an open hole feeling helpless, just as they had the last time, just as they would again. But this time there was one fewer mourner. So it would continue, until there was no one to stand by the grave, no one to mourn. Of course, by then, the hunter himself would be gone as well.

Turning back, he saw the police officer joking with his fellows outside the station house before getting into his patrol car. It was time to continue the hunt.

O>>>\----------->

The mourners gathered again at Verdant. In a blend of practicality and grief, Felicity had suggested the club. Chances were good the club would close - who was left to run it now? And they might as well put the booze to good use.

Roy came out of his grief long enough to turn bartender. But once everyone had drinks in their hands, an awkward silence descended on the room.

Finally, Diggle's voice broke the quiet. "To Thea." He raised his glass.

"To Thea." Glasses joined his in being raised, then drained.

Then the silence descended once more.

O>>>\----------->

They all stood around awkwardly, desperately trying to find a story to tell, a memory to share. But each and every one that was thought of ended up only reminding of the dead that had come before - Sara, Oliver, Tommy, Moira, Robert - and the times that would never be again, or had never been in the first place.

Diggle pulled Felicity aside, quietly. "Merlyn?"

Felicity shook her head. "No. He couldn't be here. He's... mourning in his own way." Inside her head, the ones and zeros who plotted the world's destruction cackled louder.

Diggle just nodded. It wasn't the answer he wanted, but it was the one he expected. There was no turning the clock back now, no stopping the timer. The Glades was a time bomb that was going to explode, and if Malcolm Merlyn had his way, he might very well burn all of Starling in memory of what he had lost.

Merlyn mourned with Fire - the Undertaking had taught them that - and if anything he had more to mourn now. If he had to take the whole city with him, burnt on a pyre of grief, well, that would be fine with him. There is really nothing you can do to a man who has nothing left to lose.

Diggle knew that. Learned it on the battlefields of Afghanistan. Honed it on the battlefields of Starling City. For all he knew he would choose a different way, had chosen a different way, still, he understood grief and the mad desire to burn your world to ash when you felt you'd lost everything. He'd felt that after his brother's death. Oliver's crusade had brought him back. But there was no such release for Merlyn – save the one Diggle feared was coming.

Save the one that Diggle knew he could do nothing to stop. He shivered involuntarily - old dreams of past horrors flitting across his mind - before returning to the gathering.

O>>>\----------->

Interlude-Merlyn

The hunter was on watch again, this time from a nondescript van with the name of a painting contractor on the side, covered liberally with drips, specks, and spots of different colours of paint, and at least one place where it looked like someone had leaned against a paint covered wall before balancing against the side of the vehicle. No one would think anything of it. Inside, if someone peered through the paint speckled back windows, were buckets, ladders, and other equipment, including drop cloths. And beyond all that, just behind the front seats, one of the drop cloths was squirming.

"Quiet now. It will all be over for you, soon enough." Of course he never said how. This one, he was only incidental, a bystander, just unlucky, collateral damage, and a message to the real culprit. Justice would come, swift and sure, dressed in black, silent as the arrow that would end his life. But before that, he would know fear, know what it was to have everything taken from him. Lessons were important.

The hunter had planned well. He'd waited 'til his prey had parked the patrol car and called himself off duty. The 'glades was no place to leave an unattended police cruiser. If it didn't fit in the garage or the fence when not in service, it went home with the officer who did have a garage, or carport, even a driveway. There weren't enough officers who wanted to work down there to use all the cars, all the time. It was considered a perk. It seemed to the man in black a sign from a vengeful god that he didn't even believe in that this was his first target. Too easy.

Now, he merely had to wait, and think. One down. Perhaps the boy would be back in time for the fun, to help or at least to witness. It was his right. Malcolm couldn't bring himself to attend the funeral. He'd mourn in his own way, honour her passing with his own epitaph, spelled out in the blood of those that had caused it. This would be writ large, remembered by history when her stone was gone. He believed in his own monuments. They had destroyed all that mattered to him. It was time for the hunter to return the favour, ten for one.

"Soon," he whispered, his voice hissing softly through the mask.

O>>>\----------->

Laurel stood there, feeling useless, and sad, and angry. Angry at Thea, for quitting, angry at Oliver, for dying, angry at her father, for provoking all this in the first place.

She was angry, and she didn't care who knew it. No, that wasn't true. She did care - about these people that she'd fought beside, bled with and for. She did care about them, that was the one thing she still knew.

But she was done. With all of it. She just needed to get away, bury her head in the sand and pretend that this, all of this, had never happened. She couldn't save them, any of them, and her failures gnawed at her from the inside out.

She set her glass down on the bar and slipped out the door.

Felicity watched her go.

Laurel had always been a sore point with her - because of her history with Oliver, because of her sometimes wild determination that disturbed every part of her that liked peace and order, but above all order.

Code that worked. People you could depend on. Or that at least behaved in ways that she understood.

Laurel had been none of those things to her. So she stood there, wondering numbly if she should go after her, when a large hand gently touched her shoulder.

She spun to see Diggle, a concerned look on his face.

"Felicity, have you seen Roy?"

She shook her head. "No." Concerned brown eyes looked into hers for a moment before drifting away, watching over the gathering with the careful attention of the trained soldier, ever on the alert, eyes ever on the move, watching for danger.

Felicity slipped away. She hadn't seen him go, but had a fair idea of where he'd be. Presuming he hadn't already been and gone, of course.

O>>>\-----------> 

She found him downstairs, as she'd expected. He was loading a duffel with arrows and armaments. With a stab to her heart she hadn't expected, she noticed the green-fletched arrows were gone as well.

"He doesn't need them any more," was the half-guilty response to her in-drawn breath.

She took a moment, then nodded. It was true enough. Besides, they couldn't stay here any longer, and she couldn't move most of this stuff anyway.

"Roy, will you...?" she asked hesitantly, not entirely sure of what she was even asking.

"I'll do what I can."

Kindness amidst the numbness, the pain, the distracted-focus of the hunter planning for the hunt.

She nodded, then went to her station, scribbled something down on a piece of paper, then handed it to Roy, who took it with a questioning look.

"If you can come back, this is where I'll be."

He nodded, tucked it in a pocket, continued filling the bag. When he was done, he took another, laid his leathers into it.

"They should know," was all he said.

Felicity nodded as he slipped away into the night.

O>>>\----------->

“We need to leave,” Diggle said, startling her with his voice in the silence. “Should have done it a long time ago.”

“I know,” Felicity said, refusing to look up at see him, because once she did that, it was all real. “But it wasn't time.”

And, after a moment, she did, waiting to see his reaction.

When Diggle nodded, then made as if to start packing, she stopped him. Loyal to a fault. And he needed to go home. Be with the others who needed his loyalty more, needed him more. 

Choose life, not death, not this emptiness of insanity and loss

“Go home,” she said in a voice she barely recognized as her own.

“Felicity...” he started, but Felicity held up a hand.

“Go home. You have a wife. You have a life. You have a child. Think of Sara. Oliver wouldn't want you to be a part of this.”

Warm brown eyes full of concern stared into hers. “Oliver wouldn't want you to be a part of this, either.”

She gulped, for an all-too-brief moment, grief and vengeance forgotten, until the moment passed and the weight returned. “I know,” she said gently, the faintest hint of steel and madness underneath. “But he's not here.”

“Go home, Diggle.” she said again when he made no move to leave.

He looked at her for a long time, judging, deciding. Finally, he shook his head.

And went.

O>>>\----------->

Interlude--Lance

Lance was sitting at his desk when the world went black. He had woken bleary eyed and rose from his bed. For the first time in years, he had needed to call on his sponsor. It had helped, but only some. It wasn't like he could discuss what was happening. Well, he could, but that wouldn't help, not him, not anyone. Lance had stayed up most of the night talking to the man that had gotten him sober, and by the time he headed for the station the day had already been passing.

He'd shuffled paperwork and tried not to look at his watch. Funeral day. Now they would be standing over the coffin. Now they would be listening to the priest. Now laying her down into the ground beside the rest of her family, while he tried to pretend he wasn't counting down the minutes. He'd thought about going, but what good would that do? It wouldn't make anyone feel better, including him. In fact, his presence would neither be wanted nor welcome. Instead, Lance had sat at his desk and brooded, trying to find, if not peace, then distraction, in his job. Sometimes it even worked.

Around five o'clock he'd asked the sergeant to get him a sandwich from across the street. It sat on his desk for several hours, opened but uneaten, until he'd finally thrown it into the trash in disgust. All he wanted now was for this day to end. Lance thought about calling Laurel, but then changed his mind. What good would that do? She was probably with them, at the funeral, mourning the last link to a life now long gone. She blamed him for Oliver, she had made that abundantly clear, she blamed him for a lot of things. Laurel was good at that. She had blamed Oliver for Tommy, well, Oliver and herself. Blame was a family trait that they were all too good at.

When the lights went out, Lance cursed, wondering what else could go wrong. In the back of his mind was the niggling question of whether this was an accident, or another one of those little 'problems' they had been experiencing.

"What's happening, Sergeant?" he asked as he left his office. Around him were pinpricks of light as officers grabbed flashlights.

"Not sure, Sir," the young man said.

"Well, go find out. The backup generator should be cutting in, but make sure someone goes down there." The officer nodded and hurried off.

"Jones, that you?" he called to a figure in the dark.

"Yes, sir?"

"Get on the horn to Starling Power and see what the hell is happening, and someone get down to CSU and borrow those big battery powered halogens they use for crime scenes."

"Sir, it's just us," Jones called across the room. "Starling Power says the transformer for the building went down. No reason."

"Well thank God for that at least. We don't have to worry about the riot gear, or looting. Still, tell them to get someone out here asap. Put some extra officers down in holding, and lock up anyone who even might be dangerous. Last thing we need is a dangerous dirtbag loose in a dark building full of weapons. And make sure someone has locked down the armory. Now..."

"Sir..."

"We need to make sure this is not an attempt to get into the station. I want a manual lockdown on..."

"Sir..."

"...the rear entrance, the garage and..."

"Sir... Captain Lance," the insistent voice cut through his orders and his concentration.

"What?" he growled, turning on the patrolman.

"You need to see this, outside, sir."

"Get that stuff taken care of," Lance ordered, watching police officers and their flashlights scatter. "Now what is so God damned important that..."

"Just come sir."

O>>>\----------->

Roy crept into the alley where Malcolm Merlyn waited. "Good of you to join us," the hunter said, without taking his eyes off of his little 'present'. The police precinct house was mostly dark where the power had been cut, pinpricks of light visible in the windows, and a shadow on the door, not quite seen in the remaining unbroken street lights. Soon.

"Us?" the boy asked, looking around him.

"I'd like to think that Oliver's ghost would join us for this one," he replied. Outside, a commotion was starting, the precinct spilling policemen like rice from a broken bag, flashlights and shouted orders all around.

"What have you done?"

"Just given them a taste of what revenge looks like."

"You killed him," Roy stated blankly. He didn't have the energy to be either troubled or thrilled.

"He died of natural causes," Malcolm said with a shrug, and a grin that was anything but amused. Roy gave him a look. "It's perfectly natural to die when you have an arrow through your throat. Thus endeth the first lesson."

O>>>\----------->

Lance stood in front of the station, in the minimal amount of light from half a dozen flashlights. He was suddenly very glad that he'd not eaten his dinner. "Get CSU out here, tell them to bring the lights." Procedure brought its own comfort, or what passed for it.

"Sir, it's Andrews, can't we just...take him down or something?"

"Not until CSU has done all they can. I don't like it any more than you do, but the best we can do is to catch the bastard who did this," Lance said, trying to be reassuring, or as much as he could. Everyone knew who had done it, or at least they had their suspicions, and they knew why. Even now he could hear the sounds of retching as some of them failed to hold onto their distance, their objectivity, or their dinner. The important thing now was to process and get him down before it ended up on the front page, and notifying his family. That was a duty Lance wasn't looking forward to, but he was going to have to be the one that would have to do it. After all, it was his fault. He turned to give orders to the men standing around, turning his back on the young officer who was even now growing cold in the dark, pinned like a bug in a shadowbox to the station door, an arrow through his throat. Splashed in blood above him, a message Lance didn't want to see.

Two words.

'The First'. 

O>>>\-----------> >>>\----------->

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #####  [Playlist - Grist: I will burn your world to ash (and let you watch it die)](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL99Djnb8oDmjBowOAnMFVFQJOiIdpnuSL)
> 
> #####  There you go. Took all summer, but finally-finally, it is done. The good news, for you wonderful readers, at least, is that the words for this story are finally flowing again.
> 
> ##### Planning to have the next chapter up on Wednesday for you, in honor of the S4 premiere.
> 
> ##### Wish us Good Fortune with that.
> 
> ##### Also, note: *EWL^^ moments are Riogha's responsibility. You may direct your squicks to her, the evilologist-in-residence. ;-D
> 
> ##### In the meantime, comments, kudos, social media shares, etc. are deeply appreciated and do help to add Grist to the Muse-ly Mill. In other words, they help keep us writing, so please be generous with them. :-) 
> 
> ##### -B!


	10. Dead Men's Cigarettes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dead men, and women, walking.

O>>>\----------->

Laurel walked down the hall to her office, went in, sat down, pulled up the word-processor on her computer, and typed an emergency request for an indefinite leave-of-absence. All very precise and smooth – combination-drills for a departure. As the printer spat out the white piece of paper, she shook her head. God, but she was glad to be done with all of this. Bone-weary of fighting. And not the fighting on the street – no, that was the one place that had made sense. No, she was tired of the fighting closer to home: with her father, with her self over Oliver, over his self-destructive ways, over her own. Over those lost because of them. Because she couldn't save them and they couldn't stop.

She knew that the only person who could save you was yourself. She'd heard that in a thousand meetings and in a thousand lectures from her sponsor.

It didn't make it one bit easier to accept.

She was tired of it, exhausted with the struggle and now, now that the last Queen was dead, now that Thea had joined her brother, her mother, in the cold hard ground, joined Sara among the ranks of the dead, she could find no reason to stay in Starling one minute more.

She called the locksmith she always used, always recommended - told him to meet her at her apartment. She knew he'd be there - the man had helped her out before, after Slade, after the first time Ra's al Ghul came to town.

He was quick, reliable, and discreet. He'd helped her clients out when they'd needed to protect themselves against an abusive ex of one kind or another. She was sure he'd be willing to help protect her against a father who'd lost his mind, and probably, this time, his heart and his soul as well.

After she'd hung up, his “I'll be there within the hour.” all he said, tho' she could hear the curiosity and concern in his voice, Laurel dropped the phone in her desk and locked the drawer. She'd learned enough from Felicity to know how to cover her tracks, at least somewhat. She didn't think she'd be gone forever, but if she returned, and at this point, it was certainly an 'if', she wanted it to be on her terms and her timing.

Her father and his war could go to hell.

Not that he had far to go, she thought sardonically as she walked down the hall to her supervisor's office, dropped the paper on the woman's desk and walked out, the sound of her heels against the wooden floor sounding loud in her ears, the tap-tap-tap somehow a death knell, tho' for what, she wasn't sure.

O>>>\----------->

When Lance got back to his office, leaving CSU to finish up with the body, he called Laurel, wanting the reassurance of her voice in his ear, but wasn't too surprised when it went straight to voice-mail. They'd not been on good terms for some time now, and this whole Queen thing had only made it worse.

He left a message for her to call him back when she had time and went on about his night.

First up, contacting Andrews' family. A task he wasn't looking forward to at all. He never knew what to say - less now, since everything had started to go to hell in a handbasket of late.

But he'd put the best face on it that he could, do his best to let the family know their cop had died a hero. It was the least he could do for them.

And it was even almost true.

O>>>\----------->

Roy followed the man in black further into the 'glades, through back alleys that he, as a native, wasn't even sure about. Through an apparently locked maintenance entrance, and down into the cold, dark ground. There was probably something in that. Something that Roy didn't really want to think too much about.

"This is one of the old subway stations," Roy said, realising where they were with a momentary disquiet. Bad memories of a bad time flooded through him, to be forcibly wiped away as he looked around. The large, open area with tunnels leading off in both directions, one blocked by rubble. On the wall a hastily constructed weapons rack, beside it several crates and boxes. There was a desk with a worktable on one side and several ranks of shelves holding who knew what all.

Merlyn smiled, or something like it. "Much like heroes, villains need lairs."

"Is that how you see yourself now? Are you the villain?" Roy asked. Now he knew exactly where he was, one of the locations that Merlyn had used to try to bring the entire 'glades down, one of the ones that Oliver had manage to stop. It was appropriate somehow.

"Certainly that is how a lot of people see me. Beyond that, does it matter? I once tried to save this city, but..."

"You tried to save it by destroying an entire section of the city, my home and all the people in it," Roy responded. He wanted to be angry about it, but he didn't have the energy.

"This place destroyed what I loved best. I set out to return the favour. You might not have understood at the time, but I think now you understand, don't you? Like me, you know the need for revenge, to pay them back for what you have lost."

Roy thought for a moment, then he nodded. Yes, he understood. He understood what Oliver had tried to do, had died doing, but he also understood Malcolm.

"Now they have taken everything from me, _he_ has taken everything I had left. I want Lance to see death coming for him, icy fingers coming at him, sidestepping, until he doesn't know where to look. I want him to know the pain I feel." Malcolm's face was showing emotion for the first time, and it wasn't pretty.

Like him, Roy had lost that which he loved best to this war, for war it was. He also knew that both of the old cliches were right - payback was a stone bitch, and war was hell. And the fires of that hell were going to burn until everything was wiped clean.

O>>>\----------->

Laurel met the locksmith at her apartment. As his hands moved, swift and sure, she could see that he wanted to ask why she was calling him out in such a rush, with such stress in her voice. But he said nothing and she was grateful that he didn't ask, didn't say anything, because she didn't think she could have borne it.

The compassion, the pity, the concern.

When he finished, he stood up, faced her, gave her a nod. "Take care of yourself, ya hear?" The quiet concern in his voice nearly broke her.

She stiffened her spine and nodded. "I will."

After he left, she threw some things into a couple of suitcases, not much caring what or where, then locked her apartment for what she knew might be the last time. She left her hand on the knob for a moment, thinking, wondering if she were doing the right thing by leaving, then abruptly pulled her hand away and went down the hall and out the door to find her new life.

O>>>\------------>

At the Foundry, Felicity picked up one of the unused shafts that Oliver hadn't gotten around to using and that Roy had left behind and twirled it absently in her fingers, putting it down abruptly as she remembered that day, back at the beginning, when Oliver had taken a similar arrow from her after that terrible day when she'd made a mistake and an innocent had died.

He wasn't here to save her any more – and while she had no illusions about her desire to be saved, still. It wasn't as if she'd ever see him again, after all. In her tradition, dead was dead. There was no afterlife, simply… nothing.

So while there was nothing left to live for, there wasn't enough to die for. Not yet, anyway.

Tomorrow was another day.

In the meantime, she needed to pack. Only the bare necessities – she'd call the vultures in for the rest when she was finished. It wasn't like she'd need a lot where she was going. And it wasn't like she hadn't built a ghost network before – it wasn't as good as having her own, but it would be good enough for her plans.

Then… she smiled. Well, Lance would get the message. Someday. She didn't know when he'd come looking for her here, for the answers he'd suppose the Foundry would hold, but she knew as well as she knew her ones and zeroes that he'd come someday.

And then he'd see. And he'd wonder.

Wonder when the hammer would fall.

Not tonight.

But soon.

O>>>\----------->

The next day Lance called Laurel again - after he got up, on his way in to the station. When neither of those produced results, he swung by his daughter's office. While he normally let her go her own way, desperate times called for desperate measures, and while he didn't think it was too desperate yet, still, he wanted to be in contact with her.

And end-of-day for her/beginning-of-day for him meant there would be fewer witnesses if they argued, which, sadly, was all too likely these days.

He didn't like it when his family was too far away, especially when he didn't know about it, about where they were. Too many unpleasant things had happened when he didn't know where his people, his family, were.

He'd made plenty of mistakes in his life, but this was one that he was determined not to repeat.

He strode down the hall to his daughter's office, determined to find some answers.

O>>>\----------->

Stopping by her office didn't give him any of the ones that he'd expected. There was no-one in the office and from the looks of things, no-one had been in there all day, a fact which was quickly verified with a few quiet words with the department secretary.

"Captain Lance. Can I do something for you?" The tall, regal brunette who was Starling City's District Attorney came up to him, question on her face, in her words.

He shook his head. "Just looking for Laurel."

The DA looked at him oddly. "I approved her leave this morning. I thought you knew. She said something about a family emergency – is everyone okay?"

He laughed it off, while inside, his heart fell. "Oh, of course. Yeah, they're fine. Or they will be. What I meant to say was that I was looking for a particular file of hers. Could you help me? I think it's in her desk."

"Of course, Captain." But when she'd produced the master key, and opened the drawer, revealing Laurel's phone on top, all he said was, "I'm sorry. It's not here. I must have been mistaken." His voice was quiet, but professional. Thank God he was able to keep control of himself that much - no-one needed to know the depths of their estrangement, that Laurel felt she had needed to run away rather than face dealing with him for one more day.

He managed to make it out of her office, back to his car, over to the station, all with no one the wiser. God, he was getting good at pretending.

Pretending that everything was all right.

Pretending that his life wasn't one colossal failure.

Pretending that his daughter still loved him, despite everything.

What a laugh.

What a fucking joke.

Him. The situation. All of it.

But especially him.

O>>>\----------->

Things didn't get any better when he got back to the office. A phone-call from the Commissioner, not happy about the gummy-dicks that had gone viral on the Internet. A ton of paperwork trying to correct the ton of paperwork that was related to everything that had gone wrong, and verifying that it was, in fact, the correct ton of paperwork.

“Sir, this came for you while you were out.” The officer handed him a small parcel, wrapped in plain brown paper.

He tore the paper off suspiciously and swore. A box of lube to match the condoms.

Very funny.

Not.

He grabbed the paper, looked at the label in suspicion: it was from a Mr Ben Dover.

He rolled his eyes. Really? They did that shit in grade school, for God's sake.

He threw the box in the trash and sat down to the mountains of paperwork.

Sadly, they weren't going to get done by themselves.

O>>>\----------->

**Interlude--Comes a Hunter**

The hunter watched from his perch, darker black against the darkness. Below he could see them going to and fro, like ants. But these ants had had their scent trail disrupted. Where before they had used both of the double doors into the station, now one was locked closed and they avoided even touching it with superstitious fervor. The conversations that used to take place before the doors or in the doorway, as they went in and out, the camaraderie, was gone. Instead as they went, each one looked up to the damage in the wooden door. The words were gone, but the message was branded on each and every one of them.

He had legitimately hated having to do it by hand, harder to drive the arrow through, but the man had been nothing, a message, a bystander. He'd deserved a quick death. Slow was for others, those directly responsible.

As the hunter watched, his second object lesson approached. The man in black matched the number on the patrol car at the stoplight to the list, double checking. Not that he cared, but it was neater this way. Confirmed, he took his position. Timing was everything.

O>>>\----------->

"Hey McCarthy," the officer manning the gate greeted the patrolman. "Put it over in twenty-three. It's not going out tonight. I think it's..." he consulted his clipboard.

"Better not be," McCarthy said. "They're supposed to look at the engine. It's been making a funny noise. How much longer have they got you on light duty, Harrison?"

"Doc wants me down for another week. Fuckin' quack, but considering, maybe it's not the worst place." McCarthy nodded. They both knew what was happening on the streets. Not that after what happened to Andrews, the station was feeling that much safer.

"Tell you what, I'll buy the first round when you're cleared," he told the other officer and waved, heading for the aforementioned parking space.

Harrison turned and was making a note on the list of the car number and the time, when he heard a thud. He looked out to see that McCarthy had kissed the wall at the end of the parking space. "Hey, you crazy mick, thought it was the engine, not the brakes that..." he hollered as he hurried over. Then he saw why the car hadn't stopped. For a moment, he froze. Then he dove for cover, cursing that he'd probably just set his recovery time back, but better set back than the alternative. "Officer down, I repeat, officer down. West parking lot, sniper, possibly still in the area."

"Dispatch is calling a bus," the radio spit back.

"Don't bother," Harrison said quietly. "DRT, best send for the coroner, and notify Captain Lance. It's McCarthy."

O>>>\----------->

“Sir...” a shaky voice called out, not bothering to knock.

“What?” He would have snapped, but something in the voice gave him pause, so he managed to temper it down to a weary exasperation at the interruption.

“It's McCarthy.”

His heart plummeted.

What now? He got up and followed the crowd out to the wreckage. He shouted at the bystanders to get the fuck out of the way, let CSU in and stop polluting the fucking scene! God, what a bunch of rookies! Someone get me a trajectory on that arrow, NOW!!!, all the while, knowing that it would do no good, that whoever it was would be miles away by now, but needing to do it anyway. Follow the forms as his world fell just that little bit more into the abyss.

As CSU scurried around, Lance pulled out his cell-phone, tried to call Laurel once again. “Baby, there's been another murder. I really need to talk to you. Please return my call.”

“Sir, we found the sniper's nest.”

O>>>\----------->

******Interlude--The Black or the Green** ** **

****T**** he two men had jimmied the lock on the rollup shutter of Uncle Larry's Guns and Ammo and pushed it up in preparation. One took the crowbar and was about to take a swing at the window when the arrow took him through the chest, an arrow with green fletching. A whisper through the night, “You have failed this city.” His partner turned, terror in his eyes. The Arrow was dead, wasn't he? That was why he and Jimmy were willing to risk it. He turned and was trying to figure out where it came from, or which way to run, when the timer on his life ran out.

From the shadows, Roy waited. He had no intention of hindering Merlyn's quest. He would even help, up to a point. After all, the police had failed the city too, and especially failed the 'glades. They deserved what they got. But he also had a responsibility, to his neighborhood and the people there, one bequeathed to him by Oliver, a way to honor his mentor and the woman he loved, at least until he joined them. The 'glades would rise and make Starling notice, make them take responsibility. With luck, it wouldn't be too long. Like Lance, Roy was a dead man walking. Unlike Lance, he not only knew it, but was waiting for it, to welcome it.

He left the shadows and stepped into the pool of light moments after he had blocked the CCTV camera. Work to do. Roy had also learned the importance of object lessons.

These two would do nicely for a start.

O>>>\--------->

After the CSU had finished, for all the good it had done, Lance crawled dispiritedly back to his office, back to the mountains of paperwork which weren't getting any smaller, thanks to Felicity Smoak and her machinations.

He was still working on the paperwork when a knock came on his door.

"What is it?" he snapped, not in the mood for more bad news.

"Sir," the officer's voice was grave. "There's been another homicide. Double. And..."

"What?" This day was just getting better and better.

"They were killed with arrows too, sir." And the officer fled, the stream of profanity following him back out into the squad-room.

O>>>\----------->

Lance arrived at the scene to find a crowd already there, never mind it was well after midnight. But then, arrows always attracted a crowd, especially in Starling.

"Get everyone back," he growled to the officer in charge. "I don't want them contaminating the scene."

"We're trying, sir." A beleaguered officer replied.

He grunted in response and went up to where the bodies were still pinned to the door.

He took in a sharp breath.

It wasn't possible.

That man was dead.

Unless…

No, it couldn't be.

It simply wasn't possible.

The man was _dead_.

He'd seen him buried.

So the question now was… who?

Who was wearing the mask, carrying the bow?

Who was setting himself up to be the savior of the 'glades, when he would be no more than their destruction?

He had a very short list of suspects.

Now it just remained to find out which one.

 _That_ man was dead. As to the other...someone was hunting cops, and someone was hunting criminals, black arrows and green, for or against? And were they working together?

All questions he knew he needed to find the answers to, and fast.

But first, he had to find Laurel. For answers. For reassurance that she was alive.

While he directed the officers around him, the buzz of activity that always surrounded a homicide, he pulled out his phone, called Laurel again. This time, he couldn't quite keep all the emotion out of his voice as he pleaded with her.

"Baby, please," he kept his voice down, but urgent, "please, this isn't funny. I know you're angry with me, but please, just call me back." A hitch in his voice. "I really need to hear your voice right now."

He hung up, looked around him. The crowd was growing restless, the murmurs less than complimentary to the department, less than safe for him and his people.

As the police pushed them back, they started to push back at the police, and Lance became concerned there'd be a riot right there.

Someone called out 'The Arrow lives!'. It was the last straw. The crowd roared its approval and Lance sent up a quick prayer to a God he was pretty sure he didn't believe in anymore that everyone would get out of this alive and in one piece.

Mobs were one of the most dangerous creatures on Earth, and it took so very little to tip a crowd over, to turn one into the other. Especially here, where poverty and fear had created a monster, created monsters out of otherwise ordinary people.

"Someone has to do their job for them!" another sneered and that was one insult too many. He pushed his way through the crowd, got in the loudmouth's personal space.

Fuckin' hell. He did not need this shit, not on top of everything else.

Lance hated riots.

“We do our jobs just fine. Better without the help of vigilante-justice.” He was so angry, he would have throttled the man, police-brutality be damned, but he managed to get hold of himself, settle for seeing the man pale at being singled out, thank God, back down. Not without a thrown-back obscenity, but at least he left more-or-less peacefully.

Lance looked around him. “And that goes for the rest of you too. You get on the wrong side of the law, you _will_ be arrested. Punished. According to the _law_. Understand?”

“All we understand is that the cops have abandoned us here. So don't expect us to do you any favors.” The new ringleader stood forward, eyes hard, not a bully, but a leader.

“We do the best we can...” Lance started, only to have a dismissive hand waved at him as the ringleader gestured to the people to disperse.

Lance wasn't happy at the upstaging of his authority, but the crowd had dispersed, peacefully, which was more than he'd expected. He breathed a sigh of relief and turned his attention back to the proceedings.

O>>>\----------->

As soon as he could get away, after the bodies had been detached and sent off to the coroner's office, after the CSU had gotten as much information as they could, he went off-shift, relieved that the day was finally over.

He still hadn't heard from Laurel, and despite the hour, he needed to see her with a desire bordering on the desperate.

He went by her apartment, telling himself that he'd just knock, talk to her for just a minute, and even if she slammed the door in his face, he'd know she was alive.

That she was okay.

He walked quietly down the hallway, knocked on her door. When she didn't answer after a moment, he pulled out his key.

When that didn't work, he began to grow even more alarmed, a thing he hadn't thought possible. Deciding that the ends were justified, he quickly applied some of the skills he'd picked up along the way and jimmied the lock.

As soon as he pushed open the door, he knew.

Laurel was gone.

The only good news was, it looked like she had left voluntarily. It tore at him that she hadn't told him she was leaving, but he could guess why.

It was Queen. But not just Oliver. All of them. The Queens, the Merlyns, in the end it hadn't mattered. He'd been right – no good would come of her association with those people.

And it hadn't.

 _The same good that came from association with you?_ a little voice inside his head sneered.

Three families lay destroyed now, and for what? Nothing. That's what.

Nothing but blood and pain, and trying to drown it all, which never worked, but God, it was easy at the time.

So easy to just fall.

He prayed that Laurel wasn't falling, wherever she was.

And that someday, she'd come home.

O>>>\----------->

“Felicity,” a voice she'd never thought to hear again came through the darkness.

“You came back,” she said flatly, not bothering to turn around. In another time, her voice would have been filled with words and curiosity, but now, it just held a tired wonder.

“Yes,” Roy said. “I need you.”

“Oh?” She turned to face him.

He nodded. “There are… well, I'm sure you've heard by now.”

“I did.” Her gaze flicked to her screens, where news coverage of the murders in the 'glades was running, then flicked back to him. “I assume you did it.”

“I did.” No apology in his voice. “They were going to hurt a lot of people. I made sure to hurt them instead.”

She nodded. The part of her that was filled with ones and zeros laughed maniacally, rubbing unseen hands in glee.

“So where do I come in?” she asked, knowing what he was going to ask, but wanting to be asked. For once, she wanted to be asked.

“I want you to help me. Like you helped Oliver.”

She nodded. “I won't help you hunt the police tho'. We need them." She considered. "Well, most of them, anyway.”

“I know. That's Merlyn. Nothing to do with me.” _Almost nothing,_ he didn't add. He wouldn't lie to her. Not now. Too much loss and too much at stake.

The 'glades. The people of the 'glades, the city.

To be served until they both died.

Besides, Oliver had cherished her. That meant something, one of the few things that still did.

So he would do as she asked, for now at least.

Tomorrow was another day.

“All right then. But we should do this from the new place. It'll go faster if you help.” She gestured to one of the boxes containing her precious tech.

Roy sighed, picked up the box. “All right. Where do you want me to put this?”

O>>>\----------->

Turned out, the long answer was in Oliver's first hideout, tho' the shorter answer was in her car. Together, they moved the tech over to the large low room full of white paint and little else, the only furniture they took her chair, awkwardly shoved into her car with little room to spare, and some folding tables to put the computers and monitors on.

As they were moving the tech to Felicity's new lair, Roy took the rest of the weaponry back to the subway station. He justified it to himself by saying that it wasn't any better having it get into the hands of the underground than it would have been for the proceeds from that gun-store robbery to have done so.

Finally, the room was stripped of everything that the two of them would find valuable, except for one thing.

Oliver's trunk.

Felicity had deliberately left it until last, knowing that once it was gone, she never wanted to come back here.

Although she would - once – she didn't trust the vultures of Starling's underground any further than she could throw them, so she would be here when they came to strip the place of the rest of its valuables.

Besides, she had a message to leave. One that wouldn't be left until they were gone.

But for now… she picked up the trunk and began to stagger her way outside to her car. Roy came back in, saw her, rolled his eyes, and took it from her, carrying it easily out to her car.

When he'd safely stowed it for her, he stood. “So that's it, then?”

She nodded. “I'll let the vultures know they can have the place in the morning.”

“I guess this is it then, Barbie.”

“Guess you're right.”

“You'll still help?”

“Of course. I said I would, didn't I?” She stuck out her hand, and after a moment, Roy took it, shook it gravely.

“Tomorrow, then?” he asked by way of confirmation.

“Tomorrow,” she said, and the voices of the ones and zeroes cackled in gleeful mirth.

O>>>\----------->

**Interlude--Out from the fire**

The two hunters stood on their separate rooftops, watching, waiting, just in line of sight of one another. All the roofs should have been watched after yesterday, of course, but manpower was short and getting shorter. They settled for cameras, cameras that could be hacked. The hunters, meanwhile, found themselves two new perches. Two hunters with two different missions, but they could still come together on some things. Sometimes the lines converged, crossed all the lines. This time the black and the green would join together to give them a little taste of the hell to come, with a little help from a friend.

Roy looked at his watch. Timing was everything.

The police cruiser that was escorting the gas truck pulled up to the closed gates and waited. After yesterday, there was no rolling down of windows, no friendly banter between the driver and the attendant. Instead, he sat until the gates started to open, and pulled up as soon as the opening was big enough, putting the window on the passenger side down just enough to bark confirmation that he was who he was supposed to be and that the shipment was right behind him. Crawford didn't want to take a chance. Not the way things were, not when he was only six months from his twenty, and he had every intention of making it.

The kid who was taking Harrison's place after he had retorn his knee yesterday, looked green, and it wasn't just his age. The older officer didn't blame him, he'd feel the same. Instead, he was playing gas truck escort, which was at least safer than some duties. A desk was starting to look awfully good, actually.

The sniper's nest hadn't been hard to find. The bastard had practically put a sign on it, 'assassin here'. Crawford hadn't been there, but he'd heard. They'd got up there only to find nothing, absolutely nothing. No hair, no fibers, not even pigeon crap. "I'm telling you man," his friend in CSU told him. "It was like the damn thing had been sterilized." All but the one thing, the message, painted on the roof, 'The Second', just like Andrews.

Some of the guys who had gone to Paddy's to hoist one for McCarthy had been talking about packing it in. "Better take my fifteen and be able to spend it," one of them had said. Another talked about transferring to Central City.

There were a lot of whispers, lots of rumors. First the accidents, the schedule mishaps and pay roll delays or changes, the fire alarms going off or empty cells opening and closing for no reason.. Then the weird stuff, strange deliveries, supply mistakes, no coffee or too much and no cups, crates of condoms. Last night it was twenty large anchovy pizzas sent to Sgt. Phan Tom, already paid for. The station was going to smell like fish for a while. Cops would eat anything if they were hungry, and most of the usual places had refused to deliver to them.

Now there were two dead cops, both with arrows in them. Not to mention two dead street thugs the same way. But the Arrow was dead, wasn't he? He was contemplating all of these things when the flash bangs went off in front and behind the patrol car.

Up on the roof, the black archer nodded to the green. 10, 9, 8...The officer from the car was out and running, ducking low, while the one in the booth followed, both coughing black lumps in the smoke. The driver of the tanker, getting ready to make the turn into the lot, threw the truck into reverse so fast there was a grinding noise that could be heard echoing down the block.

7, 6, 5...The green arrow flew true, puncturing the car precisely. Gasoline poured out from the hole. The two officers, having made the safety of the garage , shouted for everyone to get back as the automatic doors started to come down. Chaos.

4, 3...The black archer took aim and fired.

2, 1...The patrol car blossomed into a fireball. Gasoline and explosives were never a good combination.

The two men looked at one another. There was a nod, and they both faded into the night as the station began disgorging blue shapes, some shouting orders, others with fire extinguishers. In the distance, sirens began to blare. This time, it was for real.

The driver of the gas truck sat shivering. He'd gotten far enough away to see the fireball, now he didn't know what to do next. Then the cab door was wrenched open. The masked face gave no hints of who or what was behind it. "Be somewhere else," the voice whispered hoarsely. He didn't need to be told twice.

Inside, on screensavers all over the precinct, the legend crawled across black screens, neon green letters: "You have failed this city."

O>>>\----------->

Everything had been moved that needed to be moved, the vultures had come for the rest. The room was nearly empty, the one chair she'd insisted be left the only furniture.

She looked around, breathing past the lump in her throat. She'd spent so much of her life here, even tho' it had only been a few years.

The best years.

And now there was nothing left to do but leave.

Nothing left.

She placed a message on the chair for Lance to find, blood-red ink marking the white paper:

# I will burn your world to ash. Hell hath no fury.

was all it said.

All it needed to say.

Pledge and promise of destruction.

She left it resting there as she turned out the lights for the final time.

O>>>\----------->

Lance gathered a handful of officers and headed for the Foundry to find Felicity Smoak and detain her as a material witness until he could gather more proof against her. The car had been the last straw. It had to be her that hacked the security feeds, but she hadn't done it alone. They found the gas truck, empty, deep in the 'glades. Once they'd calmed the officers down, they had mentioned that there had been two flash-bangs – one in front, one in back. Two archers. He was going to get some answers from Ms Felicity Smoak, one way or another. While he did not believe in honor among thieves, still, Team Arrow had always been known for their loyalty to one another.

If she would not be forthcoming on her own, perhaps one of her cohorts would, when they learned of her capture.

Either way, she'd be out of the loop and not in a position to cause them any more trouble.

He hoped.

O>>>\----------->

As he clattered down the stairs into the basement of the Foundry, he found it stripped – most of the equipment he remembered gone, with only a message on a chair sitting prominently in the nearly-empty room. Waiting for him, no doubt. He crossed the room, picked up the note. _A piece of paper, how very unlike her,_ he thought with sadness, already beginning to regret what he had done, and not only for the terrible consequences it had already brought, and that he feared were coming, but also for the memory of blond hair, going to brown just at the roots, and innocent eyes staring up at him despite her heels.

Innocent eyes that were now flat and dead, for all the body was still walking.

And as much as he wanted to pin that on Oliver too, he found he couldn't. He knew the face that bore the blame, and it looked back at him every morning from the mirror.

He forced himself to look down, read the message in his hand.

It was very short. But what it promised could be never-ending.

 **_I will burn your world to ash. Hell hath no fury._** was all it said.

All it needed to say.

Lance closed his eyes in pain. He could see the storm coming. What he didn't know was what he could do about it.

The one thing that could stop her, _would_ stop her, wasn't going to be possible. He had no idea how Oliver had come back before. He wasn't going to pretend that he'd understood the man, his ways.

But he was pretty sure that Oliver was dead for good this time. He'd felt for a pulse, found none. Filled out the mountains of paperwork, reassured the police officer who'd fired the shot.

Seen the man _buried_ , for God's sake.

He didn't see how Oliver could come back this time.

Even tho' a small part of him still hoped, somehow, for a miracle. He angrily pushed that part down. This wasn't a time for fairy tales. Reality lay all around, pushing in on them in the form of blood and madness, and he didn't have time to waste on things that could never be.

"Come on. Let's go. There's nothing here." His voice, brisk, efficient, showing nothing of the pain and fear that lay underneath.

"The message…" one of his officers started to say.

"Leave it. We know who wrote it."

He turned and stalked out.

God, he wanted a drink.

>>>\----------->  O>>>\----------->

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ##### A couple of days later than planned, but I hope you agree that it was worth the wait.
> 
> ##### Next update is planned for next Wednesday. In the meantime, if you'd be so kind as to leave a comment, a kudo if you haven't already done so, and generally show Rioghna and I that you're out there reading and wanting more, we'd be most appreciative. The love really does help the Muses.
> 
> ##### -B!
> 
> Notes, Rioghna--The chapter title is taken from a song by the band I am Kloot. If you aren't familiar with them (which most of you aren't, I am sure), you might want to look it up. It's terribly appropriate.

**Author's Note:**

> #####  [Playlist - Grist: I will burn your world to ash (and let you watch it die)](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL99Djnb8oDmjBowOAnMFVFQJOiIdpnuSL)
> 
> ##### S3E18 "Public Enemy" has been very... inspirational. Yes, that's a good word for it.
> 
> ##### Inspirational.
> 
> ##### This was one of the pieces that flowed from my fingers onto the pixellated page in response.
> 
> ##### It might not be a one-shot. I realized something that I might dare to explore today as I was re-reading it in preparation for posting.
> 
> ##### If I do continue it, it will get darker before it gets better.
> 
> ##### If you'd like to see it continue, please let me know in the comments.
> 
> ##### If you liked it, period, please let me know in the comments.
> 
> ##### If you have thoughts on what you might like to see in future chapters, please... are you sensing a trend here? :D... let me know in the comments.
> 
> ##### Seriously, tho', they really do help inspire the Muse(s) and myself to keep bringing you more luscious Story Goodness.
> 
> ##### -B!


End file.
